


Something More

by ShyThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 5+1 Things, Also Jaskier is a hopeless romantic, And Geralt is surprised, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Caring Jaskier, Competent Jaskier, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Geralt is grateful, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hair Braiding, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Improvised Medical Procedures, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier can hunt, Jaskier does his best, Jaskier is helpful, Jaskier takes care of geralt, Jaskier | Dandelion Braids Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia's Hair, Kikimore, M/M, Mandatory bathtub scenes, Medicinal Herbs, Monster of the Week, Serious Injuries, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Some Bone-Setting Grossness, Whump, Witcher Elixirs, field medicine, in his own way, injured geralt, injured jaskier, later on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyThrush/pseuds/ShyThrush
Summary: 5 times Geralt breaks a bone and Jaskier is there for him.1 time Geralt gets to return the favour.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 112
Kudos: 903
Collections: Best Geralt





	1. Kikimore

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends, thanks for dropping by! This sort of morphed into a multi-chapter 5+1 thing because I couldn't stop with just one broken bone (we live for Geralt whump around here, guys). Also, I love writing from Jaskier's POV. And I love book!Geralt's sense of humour and witticism, so I tried to include that too. That is all.  
> Comments make me smile so much, so if you liked this please feel free to drop a link and let me know! I love connecting with ya'll, and comments give me ALL the happiness. You can also come yell at me on Tumblr at aloe-casia, sometimes I post fic previews and stuff. Mostly I just post Witcher nonsense.

All in all, Jaskier’s evening was going along quite nicely. They had discovered a well-sheltered clearing in which to set up a camp for the next several days, close to a burbling stream, and with plenty of grass and other shrubs for Roach to content herself eating. Best of all, two fat rabbits were roasting merrily over a spit on the fire. Geralt, bless him, was getting better at recognizing that even though his own needs in the nutrition department were decidedly low, Jaskier could only go on for so long without food. And so, whenever they stopped, the Witcher always set out promptly with several daggers with which he would skewer Jaskier’s dinner. Tonight, having doubled his regular haul, Geralt had even requested Jaskier leave a rabbit behind for him, before setting off into the darkness with a grim look on his face, veins pulsing black.

They were several hours North of a group of small, nameless settlements on the edge of the jurisdiction of Sodden, where Geralt had found a flyer advertising a meager reward for the removal of a kikimore hunting the swamps where the villagers kept and bred their wild pigs. Normally, such a small reward for a decently dangerous monster would not have attracted Geralt’s attention, but upon entering the village both the Witcher and the bard were taken aback by the state of squalor and abject poverty. And despite all the rumours, Geralt’s acceptance of a meager 50 crowns to slay the beast showed beyond a doubt that Witchers do, in fact, have feelings. That, and the fact that neither himself nor Jaskier had had enough coin to stay in an inn, let alone get a decent bath, for nigh on two weeks. Jaskier was surprised the villagers hadn’t run them out on smell alone.

However, after an (albeit cold and far too short) bath in the stream, and with the rabbits roasting merrily over the fire, Jaskier felt as close to content as he had in months. He had gotten good at pushing his worry for Geralt from his mind, especially on a hunt like this. The Witcher had dispatched several dozen kikimores in his lifetime. He would be fine, and come back stinking and grumbling and ready for a short bath and dinner. Perhaps, if Jaskier was lucky and Geralt was in a good mood, he would even be allowed to brush out and braid that beautiful silver hair. Sometimes, on the best of nights, Geralt would fall asleep with his head resting on the bard’s knee, exhausted from his hunt and peaceful under the stars. Jaskier loved those nights, even though he usually spent them composing while the Witcher rested.

Turning back to the fire, the bard turned the rabbits slowly on their stick, trying his best to cook them evenly, and arranged the two wooden bowls he carried next to the fire, fondly placing a dandelion bloom in each one. Ever since Geralt had informed him that dandelions were edible, he had taken to garnishing all their shared meals with them, just another way of spouting exposition. As much as Geralt grumbled about it, Jaskier noticed that he was always pleased by this development in Jaskier’s cooking, sometimes the ghost of a smile flickering on his tired face.

Just as the bard was finishing removing the rabbits from the spit, he heard heavy footsteps in the forest, and his heart leapt into his throat. Geralt almost never walked heavily, especially under the influence of his elixirs. Stomping out the fire hurriedly, Jaskier slipped behind a tree and fingered the small dagger he kept hidden in his boot, holding his breath and hoping the intruder would think that the occupant of their camp was elsewhere. 

The heavy footsteps stopped by the fire, and were abruptly followed by what sounded like someone stumbling against a tree, and a loud grunt that was very clearly Geralt. Jaskier slipped out from behind the tree to see the Witcher, mouth dripping with bloody saliva, half sunken down against a large oak tree by the still smoking fire. He coughed and spat roughly on the ground, looking mildly disgusted with himself.

“Fuck, Geralt, I’m so sorry...you’re just not usually so noisy, I thought perhaps it was an intruder. What in the name of the goddess happened to you?”

Geralt shook his head slowly.

“You did well,” was all he said, leaning back to rest against the tree.

Jaskier rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, having gone through this routine many times before.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he quipped, making his way over to the Witcher, “I’m not letting you do that horrible, heroic performance where you pretend there’s nothing wrong and then valiantly and abruptly dismount Roach headfirst tomorrow. I think we can all agree that it’s more humiliating than you just telling me what’s wrong with you now.”

Geralt grunted in acknowledgment, and shifted his arms away from his side with an audible groan, inviting the bard to take a closer look while still not acknowledging that there was anything wrong. Jaskier bent over him, and then recoiled with a horrified gasp.

“Oh, fuck,” he sputtered, feeling slightly queasy, “Great goddess, Geralt. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Hoped it’d go ‘way on its own,” Geralt squinted, his bloody mouth bared in a gruesome approximation of a smile.

Jaskier snorted and rolled his eyes fondly.

“Only you would joke about something like this. C’mon, let’s get your jacket off.”

With much grunting and not a lot of help from Geralt, Jaskier’s nimble fingers unclasped the Witcher’s silver studded armour, and deposited it in a heap of bloody kikimore guts and ripped leather on the grass, where Roach sniffed at it briefly before moving as far away as her tether would allow. 

“Sorry, Roach,” Geralt grunted, breathing distinctly more shallowly than normal, “Kikimore guts stink to hell.”

“Oh, but don’t worry about me,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, “Nothing my delicate sensibilities can’t handle. Let me have a closer look at that arm.”

Now that Geralt had been divested of most of his upper clothes, there was nothing shielding Jaskier from the full horror of the Witcher’s arm. The lower portion of it was hanging limply, clearly dislocated at the elbow, and the upper half was a bloody mess where the shoulder blade had been pushed down so viciously that part of it had pierced through Geralt’s arm. Jaskier gulped audibly, and took a moment to gag into the bushes behind the tree before returning to the Witcher’s side.

“That bad, huh?” Geralt asked, without opening his eyes.

“Sweet Melitele, Geralt, how did this even happen? Your shoulder blade is in your arm! I thought this was just one kikimore, not a whole nest of them!”

“Just one,” Geralt sighed, “...very large, though.”

Shaking his head and muttering obscenities under his breath, Jaskier made his way back to their packs, and retrieved some bandages and two straight sticks from near the base of a tree.

“I’ve no idea how to go about even beginning to set this, but I suppose we’ll have to start somewhere,” he stated nervously, twisting the bandages and one of Geralt’s black shirts in his thin, musician’s hands.

“Mmmm…” the Witcher grumbled, “Push the shoulder blade back up and stitch the wound, reset the elbow same as how you I showed you with my shoulder. Splint it and put it in a sling. And get me another damn shirt when you’re done. I’m freezing.”

Jaskier tested the air, and noticed concernedly that it was a decently warm evening. It was summer, and the air was alive with cicadas and other insects. Not a night to warrant more than a light shirt, and definitely not a night where the word “freezing” should be invoked.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said gently, kneeling next to the Witcher, who was trembling and developing gooseflesh on his pale chest, “I think you’re going into shock. The comedown from Cat probably isn’t doing you any favours either.

Jaskier set out a variety of needles and herbs on a clean piece of cloth, took a shaky breath, and got down to work, beginning with the ruined shoulder. Geralt silently undid his leather belt and placed it in his mouth, biting down hard and giving the bard a solemn nod to indicate he was ready. Jaskier felt sickness roiling in his stomach as he put all his strength into pushing the Witcher’s shoulder blade back into its proper position, even as blood poured out of the wound left by the bone. Throughout the whole ordeal, Geralt’s body was tense, breath forcing its way heavily in and out of his nose as he tried to keep his composure. Jaskier stitched the wound neatly, placed a bandage over it, and relocated the elbow with only a few pained groans and grunts.

“I’m almost done now,” he tried to make his voice soothing, even though it was shaking from exertion and a healthy amount of guilt, “Just let me get you a clean shirt and then we’ll get your arm bandaged and immobilized and you can rest a bit.”

Geralt’s head rolled against the trunk of the great tree, and he looked at Jaskier with hazy amber eyes. He had spent most of the time the bard was fixing him up in a state of meditative half-consciousness, and Jaskier doubted he would resurface any more fully tonight. Usually, it took him a whole night to completely return to himself after an ordeal like this one. 

“Dammit, Jaskier, it’s fucking cold.”

The Witcher’s shivering had not stopped the whole time Jaskier was fixing his arm, and the bard knew he needed to get Geralt warm if he didn’t want him to slip further into shock.

“I know, I heard you,” he stated fondly and slightly sympathetically, “Just let me get another shirt for you, I’m going to use this one to make a sling.”

Jaskier returned with another dark shirt, although this one was more finely made, and embroidered with runic symbols and flowers in dark thread. The bard wondered who had embroidered that so carefully for the Witcher, and resolved to ask him when he was no longer incapacitated and shivering on the forest floor. Gently, Jaskier guided Geralt’s injured arm through the sleeve, pulled it over his head, and then let the Witcher work out putting his other arm through the sleeve while the bard when about heavily bandaging the injured arm. He wrapped it tightly, splinted the shoulder, and then used Geralt’s other shirt as a makeshift sling, tying the sleeves behind his friend’s neck.

“I’m all done now,” Jaskier whispered, not wanting to startle Geralt while he was still coming down from Melitele-knows-how-many elixirs, “Let’s get you over to our bedrolls, and then I’ll build up the fire a bit yet before we sleep.”

Geralt opened his eyes, and stood up by bracing his hand against the tree behind him, staggering slightly and blinking as his body adjusted to having lost a considerable amount of blood.

“Come on,” Jaskier smiled fondly as Geralt gazed at him tiredly, “I’ll give you a hand. It can be our secret.”

Geralt allowed Jaskier to slip under his arm without complaint, and the bard practically dragged the exhausted Witcher over to their bedrolls, which he had set up while Geralt was gone, thank goodness. The bard lowered Geralt down onto his own bedroll, covering him with both their cloaks to ward against the cold he was no doubt still feeling. Geralt shifted, wincing slightly, as he tried to take all the weight off his broken shoulder.

“Night, Jaskier,” he murmured sleepily.

“Night.”

~0~

The following morning, Jaskier woke to an exceptionally unusual sight. Geralt, his hair still damp from what the bard assumed was an early-morning attempt to wash kikimore guts out of his hair, was sitting on a log by the fire, dragging a fine comb through his hair and swearing quite shockingly. His arm was still bound tightly to his chest, and his face was white and scrunched with pain.

Jaskier sat up, fully awake in an instant. Yet another skill he had picked up after years of travelling with the Witcher.

“For Melitele’s sake, Geralt, how did you even bend over the stream to wash your hair with your shoulder like that? Here, let me help you.”

“Hurts less today,” Geralt grunted, although when Jaskier touched his arm lightly he hissed and moved away.

“I’m sure,” the bard answered dryly, “Now, let me do something about breakfast and then I’ll sort out this mess.”

He gestured vaguely at Geralt’s tangled mess of loose silver hair while he quickly got a fire going, and placed the remainder of last night’s forgotten rabbit in a pot over the fire to boil down into broth. Once he was sure all was well on the food front, he turned back to Geralt, smiling when he saw that the delicate comb clutched in his good hand was, in fact, a gift from the bard, bought during a winter’s stay in Oxenfurt. It was carved with delicate images of Geralt’s swords, and his wolf medallion on the handle.

“Well, I’m glad to see you do occasionally use my gifts for their intended purposes,” he quipped, taking the comb from Geralt’s hand and gently working it through the tangled silver hair, “How’s your arm feeling today? And if you lie, I’ll drag you back to the river and let you fend for yourself.”

“You couldn’t drag me if you tried,” Geralt grumbled, “And it’s feeling better. My shoulder is damnably sore, I’m tired and cold, and I won’t be able to wield a sword for a while. But I’ll be alright, with some rest.”

The bard’s deft fingers were now working their way through Geralt’s still slightly damp hair, dividing it into three parts and plaiting it halfway down, before tying off that part in a small knot; a more intricate version of the half-tied-back style Geralt usually wrestled his hair into with much muttering and swearing. The Witcher closed his eyes and massaged his sore arm carefully. Jaskier smiled, knowing how much his Witcher enjoyed having his hair looked after, even if he was loath to admit it.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better. Let’s stay here for a few days, now that you’ve dispatched the kikimore. You can rest and get some strength back in your arm, and then we can head back to the village to get your coin. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to travel or ride with your shoulder like that. You didn’t see it, Geralt, it was horrible.”

“I felt it.”

“I suppose.”

Jaskier combed his fingers through Geralt’s hair once more, and proceeded to remove his arm carefully from the sling, apologizing profusely when Geralt groaned and swore as Jaskier peeled the bandages away from his bloody upper arm.

“I still can’t believe this is your version of feeling better. Your whole arm is black and blue.”

Geralt shrugged with his good shoulder, bringing up a hand to massage the sore, injured tendons in his neck, where the shoulder blade had been ripped downwards.

“I won’t be doing any hunting for a while,” there was something akin to guilt in his amber eyes, “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I know you haven’t eaten properly in days.”

The bard settled Geralt’s arm back into its sling, and rubbed his hand over the Witcher’s neck, feeling the swollen, broken tendons and enflamed muscles. Geralt sighed, leaning into Jaskier’s gentle hand.

“I guess I’ll just have to learn how to hunt for the both of us,” the bard smiled softly, “I can finally use that dagger you gave me for practical things.”

“Mmm,” Geralt responded sleepily, wrapping his good arm around his injured one protectively, “Would rather you didn’t have to.”

Jaskier stood, retrieved his knife from by their bedrolls, and returned with a blanket and Geralt’s cloak, both of which he wrapped around the Witcher’s shoulders, and handed him a bowl of soup from the boiling pot.

“Get some rest,” he said softly, “And don’t use that arm. I’ll go and try to find us some dinner.”

Jaskier planted a gentle kiss on Geralt’s eyelids, which were wavering shut under the comfort of the blanket and the soft, pounding ache of his arm. He didn’t wake until the bard returned, a brace of rabbits slung over his back.

“I didn’t know you could hunt,” he stated, sleepily surprised.

“You never asked.”


	2. Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt return to Oxenfurt to meet one of the bard's old friends. However, she is facing troubles of her own, which the bard and the Witcher unwittingly become drawn into.

It had been months since Jaskier had seen anything even vaguely similar to a civilized city, and, to be honest, it was beginning to grate on his nerves in ways he had no control over. As nice as it was to spend the night in a warm inn as opposed to eating half-cooked meat on the cold ground in the middle of some monster-infested bog, there were only so many flea-bitten mattresses and public bathhouses a bard could take before he began to crave something a bit more...well, a bit more. So, when Geralt informed him that they would be riding by Oxenfurt, Jaskier took it upon himself to do everything within his power to convince the Witcher that a few nights spent within the city’s walls would do them both more harm than good. 

“No. Absolutely not.” Geralt did not even bother to turn in Roach’s saddle when he gave the bard his answer, “You can waste your coin how you wish, but I’m not spending mine on a bathhouse with fifty types of scented salts. I’ll wait for you here.”

Jaskier groaned, somewhat dramatically, and strummed a melancholic chord on his lute.

“Oh, but you underestimate me, my friend. None of your hard-earned coin need to be spent. Or do you forget, Witcher dear, that I lived in Oxenfurt for several years? I have many illustrious friends who would be more than happy to take us in for a few nights.”

Geralt scowled and pulled Roach to a halt.

“Any lords and ladies of Oxenfurt would likely take one look at me and bar their doors to the both of us. You know I’m not a welcome presence in large towns. I would much rather stay in the woods.”

Trying to quell the disappointment settling deep in his gut, Jaskier turned away from the crossroads.

“I should have liked for you to meet them,” he tossed over his shoulder, before turning down the road that led back into the woods, away from music, civilization, and a hot bath. Jaskier trudged several steps before he stopped, realizing that Roach’s familiar hoofbeats had not yet caught up with him. He turned, and was surprised to see Geralt had stopped partway down the other road, the one leading to the Oxenfurt Bridge.

“You’re going the wrong way, bard,” he grumbled.

Jaskier felt something inside his chest swell, threatening to burst.

“Oh, thank you, Geralt,” the words tumbled from his mouth before he realized what he was saying, and he jogged to catch up behind the bay mare as the Witcher pulled the hood of his dark cloak up over his head, obscuring any signs of the distinctive white hair and amber eyes. Together, they turned towards the city.

~0~

After a small altercation with the city guards, who were deeply concerned about both the size and number of Geralt’s weapons, Jaskier found himself wandering down familiar streets, breathing in the sweet smells of spices and running his hands over the fine wares on display in the streets. He felt relaxed for the first time in months, out of danger, surrounded by people and culture and music. Sweet memories of his time at the University filled his mind as he wandered through the city, leading Geralt on a meandering path to the wealthiest district of the city. It was not lost on the bard that, for all his exclamations of delight and wonder, Geralt remained silent and unsettled, hidden under his cloak despite the heat, his hands twitching uneasily on the reins.

“I know this many people isn’t what you’re used to, my friend,” Jaskier sighed apologetically, disappointed he wouldn’t get to spend more time exploring the city but worried about Geralt’s easily overwhelmed senses in situations such as this, “Let’s go. We can meet up with some friends of mine at their house and join them for dinner.”

They turned away from the vibrant marketplace and headed further inwards, delicate hyacinth blossoms and long-branched weeping willow trees sweeping down into the streets to greet them. Set far back from the road, fine houses stared down with blank windows.

“Here we are,” Jaskier smiled, “Eliza is a lady of the city, and attended classes with me for many years. It’ll be good to see her again.”

Geralt grunted in response, still not taking down the hood of his cloak. He reluctantly gave up Roach to a well-dressed stablehand as they entered through the ornate, wrought-iron gates, giving the poor boy a soul-crushing glare and a brief overview of what would happen to him should the mare not be properly tended. 

After Roach was cared for, Geralt settled into an uneasy walk behind Jaskier as they headed to the beautiful back door of the mansion, watched over by two gargoyles that glared down menacingly, mouths gaping though no water was currently flowing out of them. Before they entered, Jaskier, sensing the Witcher’s severe discomfort, turned and faced his friend, taking him by his broad shoulders.

“I know this isn’t how you would choose to spend a weekend,” he began apologetically as Geralt stared impassively down at him, “But I hope you’ll be surprised by Eliza and her family. I think you’ll like them more than you expect to. They’re different. Not like the nobility you know.”

“I’ll be fine,” was the replying grunt.

“Just remember to take time to take care of yourself. No one here will be offended if you go off for a walk or a ride on Roach to be alone with your thoughts.”

Geralt just looked down at him, with the same unreadable expression. However, he did not remove Jaskier’s hands from his shoulders, and there was an imperceptible softening of the tension in his face and around his eyes. Jaskier gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and turned to pull the velvet cord next to the door. Somewhere deep within the bowels of the house, an enormous bell clanged. Then, the distant patter of footsteps began to quickly approach, and the door was flung open by a young woman wearing a thunderous expression.

“Who the fuck…” she growled, blue eyes scanning the yard for a long moment before finally alighting on Jaskier and Geralt, “Oh! Jaskier! Come in, both of you. Quickly, please.”

She glanced nervously around the empty courtyard as she ushered them rather forcefully into an enormous back foyer, slamming the door behind them and fastening six bolts, at least half of which slid shut magically. Jaskier observed Geralt raising a silvery eyebrow at her back. Sighing, Eliza turned and leaned against the door, running a hand through wildly curly brown hair that frizzed out from her head like a chaotic stormcloud. She was dressed all in men’s clothes; breeches and a jerkin made from brown leather, and tall black boots. Fastened at her waist was an enormous dagger with an extravagantly scythe-shaped blade, the hilt crusted in rubies and emeralds. There were deep bags under her eyes, and the way she kept her hand close to her chest gave Jaskier the impression that the jewel-encrusted knife was not the only weapon on her person. Perplexed, he moved towards her, though she shied away uncharacteristically.

“Eliza,” he smiled gently, sensing exhaustion and fear pouring off her in waves, “Whatever’s the matter, my dear?”

She waved her hand away, forcing a smile onto her thin, careworn face.

“Just surprised, is all. I don’t get many visitors these days. What in the thirteen hells brings you to Oxenfurt? And who’s your companion?”

She gestured at Geralt, who had removed his hood and was cleaning under his fingernails with a dagger. He looked deeply uncomfortable.

“The road took us by. I thought it would be good to stop by and see my old friend,” Jaskier smiled gently, “This is Geralt, my travelling companion, reluctant friend, and Witcher extraordinaire.”

Geralt inclined his head slightly, twisting the small blade between his fingers nervously. Eliza nodded in return, and beckoned them inside. Jaskier noticed that all the windows were shuttered and locked, and the servants who had bustled through the house during their university days were nowhere to be seen.

“Eliza,” Jaskier gripped her arm gently, feeling her tense under his touch, “What’s happening here? Where’s Elien? If now isn’t a good time, we can always…”

Eliza turned, her eyes sad and dark.

“Now’s as good a time as any. There’s nothing anyone can do to make it better, so why not try to enjoy the time we get?”

Jaskier pulled her swiftly to a stop, and spun her around to face him.

“Eliza, this isn’t like you. Normally you’d be hunting, reading, studying, riding on the grounds with Elien. Not locked up in here. What’s happened to you? Where’s Elien gone?”

Eliza sighed and scrubbed a dry hand over her tired eyes.

“He’s gone. Go wash up, I’ll tell you the story at dinner. It’s a rotten tale, and one you’ll want to hear after you have a couple drinks in you.”

Jaskier placed a gentle hand on Eliza’s shoulder, ever attuned to the distress of others, before turning to Geralt, who followed him through a maze of passages to the upper levels of the gargantuan house. Jaskier noticed as they passed through some of the lower halls, that cobwebs drifted eerily from the ceiling, and there was dust piled in the corners. Knowing Eliza would never have allowed her family home to come to such a state of disrepair willingly, he tried to quell the feelings of discomfort crawling in his gut. Geralt’s silent, steady presence at his back offered a certain reassurance; he knew the Witcher was more than aware that all was not well here, and he would be alert to any dangers.

Jaskier opened the heavy wooden door to his preferred guest room carefully, remembering many years ago when he had spent many a night in this room, enjoying revelries and delights with his friends at the University. That life seemed so far away from him now, he though as he watched Geralt slip on a clean black shirt and roll out his shoulders before buckling a dagger at his waist. Returning to the past with Geralt at his side felt strange, curious, and not entirely correct. The bard allowed the vaguest of shudders to slip through his body. No matter what tonight brought, he knew he would have Geralt at his side.

~0~

When Jaskier and Geralt descended to join Eliza for dinner, they found her in a massive library painted rich red, sitting on a sofa decorated with ornate golden and red velvet and brocade. A fire was blazing merrily in the hearth, and there were a selection of meats and wines set up on a table by the window, outside of which the wind blew eerily through the trees. Eliza smiled at them, but not with the same warmth Jaskier remembered from their university days. She had a wan, sad look to her now, a weariness and heaviness that penetrated the room.

Before they had come downstairs, Geralt had slipped one of his own daggers into Jaskier’s boot, grumbling that something was definitely not right here. As they had left, the Witcher, who had remained pensive and quiet while they were getting ready, had placed a warm hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and bid him to be careful, and warn Geralt should anything seem to be wrong. The bard still carried the warmth of Geralt’s hand on his shoulder as he entered the library and sat next to Eliza, who had poured them each an enormous goblet of wine. 

“So, what brings you back to Oxenfurt, Jaskier?” She asked quietly, “Thought you were having grand adventures these days.”

Jaskier shrugged, taking a long draft of his wine. He noticed Geralt had returned to cleaning his nails with the knife, amber eyes dancing with the reflection from the fire.

“Thought I’d stop by and say hello to some old friends. We were passing through, and spending days and days out in the wind and the cold isn’t exactly excellent for the lungs.”

Eliza laughed gently.

“It is good to see you again, old friend. And to meet your travel companion as well. Even in Oxenfurt we’ve heard the ballads about the famous White Wolf of Rivia.”

Geralt snorted softly and looked up.

“They’re mostly a crock of bullshit.”

“All good ballads are.”

The faintest of smiles curled at the corners of the Witcher’s chapped lips, and Jaskier smiled a bit too, glad his friends were warming to each other somewhat. It wasn’t easy to encourage Geralt to warm to anyone. 

~0~

Several hours later, the three of them were deep into their cups, Jaskier and Eliza slurring words and singing half-hearted drinking songs, while Geralt had retreated to a corner, presumably to protect himself from overwhelmed senses, a common ailment when he had consumed too much alcohol.

“So, Eliza,” Jaskier stood shakily, and placed a hand sloppily on the woman’s shoulder, “When we were drunk enough, you were going to tell us about Elien?”

Eliza almost tipped sideways under the weight of Jaskier’s hand, but managed to catch herself on a bookshelf before stumbling over to the fireplace. She took another long drink from a bottle of fine Redanian red wine which was sitting on the mantle, and then beckoned to Geralt. The Witcher looked up slowly, and stood, bracing himself against the bookshelf as he approached to sit next to the bard on the sofa. While his mutations prevented him from experiencing all the effects of drunkenness experienced by Jaskier and Eliza, he was none too steady on his feet, and his enhanced eyesight and hearing were almost overwhelming him with their sensitivity. Eliza noticed his discomfort, and lowered her voice to a more manageable level.

“Several months ago,” she began tiredly, words slurring and eyes wandering aimlessly, looking anywhere but at Jaskier and Geralt, “Elien came home from a hunt. He’d gone on his own, and he was gone for several days. I was beginning to worry, when he returned to our doorstep, muddy, wet, and badly injured. We cared for him for several days before he regained himself enough to tell us what happened to him.”

Eliza stopped here and shuddered, her pale blue eyes, already cloudy with drink, misting over slightly. She fiddled nervously with one of her curls.

“For days, he was in shock, unable to speak about what happened. All he would tell us was that someone was coming for him. Eventually, we paid a man, who discovered that there was an assassin in Oxenfurt waiting for my husband. He had attacked, and failed to kill him, on the hunt. But he didn’t give up so easily. Over the next several weeks, our home was ransacked, our servants fled out of fear. Several times, arrows were shot through our windows. While none of them killed Elien, he began to live in fear. He wouldn’t go anywhere near the windows. He spent his time holed up in the cellar, trembling. Eventually, when it was just the two of us left, I hired a carriage, drugged him, and had him smuggled out of the city, while I stayed behind to keep up pretences. I can only hope the assassin hasn’t discovered he is gone. Even I don’t know where the carriage took him.”

There were tears dripping down Eliza’s face, and her hand trembled where it rested on the mantle. 

“Have there been any attacks since your husband left?” Geralt asked quietly, his curiosity piqued. Jaskier knew, even though he always said he never got involved, that there was a part of the Witcher that couldn’t turn down the opportunity to hunt a monster, be he man or beast.

“Just one, about a week ago. He shattered a window, but our stableboy came across him and scared him away. I feel as though my life has been reduced to waiting for him to kill me.”

Geralt hummed, his hands pyramided in front of his face, presumably to keep the glare of the fire away from his eyes. Jaskier reached out and took Eliza’s arm gently.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” He asked worriedly, fearing for his friend, cooped up alone and living in fear, “Have you talked to the city guard?”

“They won’t help me,” Eliza said mournfully, “They don’t get tangled up with mercenaries. You never know who they might be working for, and the last thing the mayor wants is to get Oxenfurt on the wrong side of the wrong people. And I don’t want you getting involved, either. I could never live with myself if I put anyone else in danger. By all rights, I should never have let you stay the night here, only it looked so miserable outside, and the two of you so tired.”

Then, the woman sagged, her voluminous hair tangling around her face as tears poured from her eyes. With as much coordination as he could muster in his drunken state, Jaskier caught her and lowered her to the floor before the fire, where he held her until her sobs turned to the light breaths of sleep. When he looked up, he found Geralt was gone.

~0~

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile when he returned to the guest bedroom and found the Witcher splayed out haphazardly on the ornate sofa that occupied the corner of the room. He had covered himself in his travelling cloak, obviously meaning to leave the bed and blankets for Jaskier. In a slightly drunken haze, the bard stumbled over to Geralt and shook him, probably a bit too roughly, on the shoulder. The Witcher rose with a growl, dagger half drawn before he realized who it was and slumped back slightly, eyes unfocused. Jaskier fared even worse, and barely managed to drag the Witcher upright before sagging against the wall, and plummeting head-first into the bed.

“There’s room for both of us,” the bard slurred out as he buried his face in a pillow, “Don’t be…an insufferable idiot.”

Geralt exhaled softly before allowing himself to sink into the pillows on the opposite side of the bed, his breaths evening into the deep rhythm of sleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

~0~

Geralt awoke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest and a voice in his aching head screaming at him to be on alert, that he was in danger. Before he had even fully awoken, he was sitting, one hand feeling about for his sword while his eyes, still aching and sensitive from copious amounts of wine, scanned the room for any signs of danger.

It did not take him long to find it. A window, which Geralt would never have allowed to be left open before he fell asleep, no matter his condition, was open, the sheer gossamer curtain fluttering eerily in the night breeze. Tensing, the Witcher rose from the bed, stumbling slightly as the alcohol which was still very much present in his blood made itself known. The room reeled around him, full of unfamiliar smells and sounds, and left him unable to pick out what belonged from what did not. 

A second before the blow fell, Geralt felt the air shift, caught a whiff of iron on the air, the smell of blood that no amount of washing could ever remove. He ducked, bringing up his sword, which met with cold steel, and a darkened face in the shadows that leered out at him. The clang awoke Jaskier, who startled upright and let out a shocked cry, before turning to reach for the dagger Geralt insisted was always left near to him. He threw it, but missed, and the assassin did not even flinch, so intent was he upon the Witcher.

“I see Eliza’s hired herself some bodyguards now,” he sneered, face still obscured under a dark hood, “Perhaps it’s time I sent her another little message to remind her who’s in charge.”

Geralt, his head still swimming from the wine, withdrew his sword and pirouetted away, taking up a defensive stance between the assassin and the bed. However, the alcohol left him slow, and gave the assassin the split second he needed to bring down the wickedly sharpened gem on the hilt of his dagger onto Geralt’s side. It was a mighty blow, clearly magically enhanced, and the Witcher felt bones crack under it, the breath stolen from his lungs as his vision swerved and ducked before him.

“Eliza should’ve hired someone more competent,” the man mocked, “I’ve fought children who put up more of a fight.”

Sucking in all the breath he could through the fire in his ribs, Geralt grabbed the assassin by the shoulders and used his remaining strength to push him roughly towards the open window, entangling him in the curtain and shoving him through the opening. As he did so, the assassin brought down the cruel hilt of his dagger once more on Geralt’s head. As the man fell, the Witcher’s vision blacked out, blood pouring from his forehead. He retched once, clutching his ribs in agony, and then he knew no more.

~0~

Every breath Geralt took as he swum slowly back to a semiconscious state sent fire ripping through his chest. He briefly wondered if he was burning, so intense was the pain. There was a tightness in his chest, and his lungs burned for air he could not take in. He gasped, and barely concealed a groan as agony flared through him and almost sent his consciousness fleeing again. He heard a voice, and felt a gentle hand on his, stroking gently. Confused as to who would spent the time to care for him, he cracked an eye, only to shut it immediately afterwards. His head pounded, and the light that had briefly filtered in was unbearable and left his head swimming and his stomach churning.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice, filled with worry.

“Mmm…what happened?” He responded, keeping his eyes closed.

“You don’t remember?” The bard’s voice increased its worried frequency, “There was an assassin, who you killed, and almost got yourself beaten to bits in the process. Really, Geralt, I feel like after all this time fighting monsters you’d be able to handle one man without getting turned to pulp. Now, how do you feel?”

Geralt took a moment to take stock of his body before he answered, feeling the various aches and pains. By far the worst was his head, which pounded fiercely, and was causing him to feel sick. His ribs were clearly broken, but he could feel bandages wrapped around his chest, and pillows supporting his back and taking the pressure off his aching sides.

“Sick,” he settled on, “My head hurts to hell. And I’d like to fucking sleep.”

His tenuous grip on consciousness was beginning to slip, as was his control over his twisting stomach. Weakly, he turned to the side and retched miserably, feeling Jaskier’s comforting hand rubbing circles on his aching back. The convulsions from the sickness caused the pain in Geralt’s ribs to reach an unbearable, burning threshold, and he gave in to unconsciousness, laying back against the support of the pillows and pressing a trembling hand to his aching head.

~0~

The next time Geralt awoke, he was able to open his eyes slightly, and he reached up to feel a row of thick stitches winding their way over his brow.

“Good to see you again,” Jaskier’s voice murmured softly, “Don’t try to move, your ribs are broken quite badly, and you’ve been very sick.”

Geralt’s throat ached acidly, and he could tell he must have vomited while he was unconscious. Jaskier produced a glass of water, which the Witcher wrapped a trembling hand around and drank gratefully.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” he grumbled, wrapping his arm back around his aching ribs.

Without any more explanation required, Jaskier added some herbs to the cup and brought it back to Geralt’s lips. The Witcher smelled milk of the poppy, and as he drank he felt the pain and the world melt away, fading into a swimming, sickly haze of dizziness and the grinding feeling of broken ribs pressing against his skin. Distantly, as he drifted into an opiate-induced haze, he could feel Jaskier’s hand cupping his cheeks, drawing his disoriented gaze.

“Just rest, Geralt,” the bard whispered, stroking his sweaty, aching head, “You’ll be well soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever to update, since quarantine began I've been trying to finish my university courses up while also being a full-time parent to two kids...yikes! I'm worried the writing in this seems a bit choppy, as it was written over the course of several sittings, so please let me know what you think. There will be a second part as soon as I can update, as well!  
> Hope you're all taking care out there!


	3. Assassin Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot of the previous chapter comes to a conclusion, and Eliza makes herself useful and finds a way to thank Geralt for his help. Jaskier is there for Geralt, as per usual.

Sun filtered in through the window as Jaskier stretched his aching arms over his head, still feeling dizzy after the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed the night before. He was stiff, both from being roused rather unceremoniously from his drunken sleep, and also from having spent the following hours of the night trying to get Geralt’s ribs bandaged and his head stitched. Now, the bard’s eyes were stinging in the morning light, and he scrubbed a tired hand over his face, feeling a day’s worth of stubble beginning to peek up from his cheeks. He really could do with a shave, but he was unwilling to leave Geralt in his current condition, needing to be roused from his uneasy sleep every hour to make sure he hadn’t slipped beyond Jaskier’s grasp after such a serious blow to the head. There was still blood crusted onto his pale brow; every time Jaskier had tried to wash it away the Witcher’s brow had wrinkled in pain and he had subconsciously drawn back, sometimes groaning at the pain it caused him, even unconscious. Jaskier was fearful, to say the least. Geralt was in a bad way, and he had not even had a chance to leave his side and make sure Eliza had survived the night.

Uneasily, Geralt stirred again, bringing up a hand to his head, silvery-black brows furrowing in confusion and pain at the stitches and blazing ache he was no doubt feeling.

“There you are,” Jaskier murmured, gently moving the Witcher’s hand away from the wound on his forehead, “Leave your head be for now, please. You took a bad hit, just try and rest. I’ll bring you something for the pain.”

Jaskier took the glass of water and milk of the poppy of the bedside table and gently dripped some of it between Geralt’s lips using a cloth. The Witcher swallowed it reflexively, clearly already drifting back to sleep.

“Goddess, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, tiredly, “I’m so sorry. We never should have come here. Now you and Eliza are both in trouble.”

Although the bard was loath to leave Geralt behind, he had left Eliza resting on the sofa by the fire last night, and he was concerned for her safety after the attack, since he did not know where else the assassin had gained entry into the house before he found his way up to their room. He closed the gossamer curtains, so that should Geralt wake, his aching eyes would not be subjected to the morning light streaming in through the windows. Jaskier knew that Eliza would be able to help Geralt more than he was able to; she had spent her years at Oxenfurt University training to be a physician, and she had been excellent.

The bard jogged down the stairs and followed the hall, encrusted with jewelled vases and golden-plated suits of armour, to its end, where he entered the library. To his great relief, he found Eliza, mouth hanging open and curls wildly haloing around her head. He smiled fondly despite the worry and adrenaline that was still pumping in the pit of his stomach from the night’s exploits. Eliza had not lived an easy life, and it hurt Jaskier deeply to see her so suffering. Part of him just wanted to leave her to her rest, now he knew she was safe, but Geralt needed attention he could not give.

“Eliza,” he spoke softly, knowing only too well the pain of a headache the morning after a night of overconsumption of alcohol, “Please wake up. The assassin returned last night. We need your help.”

Eliza sat bolt upright, her blue eyes searching wildly, not even the vaguest sign of fogginess remaining in her expression.

“Where is he? Jaskier, what did he do?” There was pure terror in her voice, and her hand gripped the ornate dagger still clasped at her waist.

“He’s gone,” Jaskier reassured her, “Geralt killed him, I think. But he caught us both by surprise, and Geralt’s hurt quite badly. He has a concussion, I think, and some very badly broken ribs. I was up with him most of the night, and gave him something for the pain, but he’s very sick and I’m worried for the state of his ribs if he doesn’t stop throwing up soon.”

Eliza slumped back against the sofa, her expression full of guilt as she rubbed her leather-clad arm over her eyes.

“Fuck, Jaskier. I never should have let the two of you stay here. I’m so sorry. How badly is he hurt? Is he having trouble breathing?”

“It’s not your fault, my friend. We chose to stay, even after you told us what was happening here. And it’s my responsibility as your friend to be there for you. As for Geralt, he knew the risks as well. But he’s in a bad way, his breathing is pained and he’s so ill from the hit he took to the head.”

Eliza nodded, and rose shakily from the sofa, looking more tired now that she was awake. She collected a bag and several other odds and ends from a cupboard that was nestled away among the books of the library.

“Take me to him.”

Jaskier nodded, recognizing well the look of guilt that had not budged from her face. He, too, felt responsible for bringing Geralt here. If they had stayed away, as the Witcher would no doubt have much preferred, then there would have been no chance this could have happened to his friend. Of course, as Jaskier led Eliza upstairs, he could hear a much more reasonable voice, which sounded suspiciously like Geralt’s, reminding him that the life that the two of them led had dangers no matter where they went. If it had not been the assassin in Oxenfurt, it would have undoubtedly been some other evil that desired to cause them harm. 

“He’s in here. I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind. He doesn’t always take kindly to strangers, especially when he’s hurt.”

Eliza nodded, but didn’t answer. She opened the door softly, and went to where Geralt still lay. Jaskier noticed with mounting concern that he did not appear to have moved even an inch since the bard had left. However, his amber eyes were open slightly, confused and foggy, and there was a crease in his forehead, caused probably by a combination of pain and confusion. His throat was swallowing convulsively, and his breath wheezed in and out in sharp, pained bursts.

“Geralt?” Jaskier approached him tentatively, having been on the receiving end of many confused and dazed attacks during his time travelling with the Witcher, “It’s just me, and I’ve brought Eliza with me. She trained at Oxenfurt as a doctor, she’ll be able to help you more than I did.”

Jaskier wasn’t even sure if Geralt heard him, but the crease in his forehead disappeared somewhat, and he looked slightly less like he was going to start retching over the edge of the bed. Gently, Eliza moved his sweaty hair out of the way of his forehead, and checked Jaskier’s thick black stitches carefully, trying to touch the wound as little as possible.

“He was hit badly,” she said worriedly, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to let him go back to sleep right now. I can give him something to ease the pain and keep him awake, and I can bandage those ribs a bit better, but beyond that he just needs to rest and heal on his own. There’s not much I can do for bones I can’t set, or for a wound when I can’t put him to sleep.”

Jaskier nodded, having already expected as much. He had been fearful letting Geralt sleep during the night, but he had not been able to do much to keep him awake beyond checking in on him every once in a while.

“I’ll stay with him while he’s awake.”

Eliza nodded, and dripped a little of the herbs she had been busy crushing with water between Geralt’s lips.

“Good. Try to keep him talking, if you can. To take his mind off the pain. And keep him comfortable. I’ll bring up some ice from the cellar to put on those ribs, it should help to numb some of the pain and keep the swelling down, and it would probably help give him more pillows for his head.”

These were all instructions Jaskier had expected as well, although he was surprised and grateful that Eliza had a cellar where she kept ice, a rare delicacy everywhere except the courts, particularly at this time of the year. He supposed, as one of the oldest manor houses in Oxenfurt, he shouldn’t be surprised, but at the very least he was very glad to have something with which to dull the Witcher’s considerable pain.

Eliza turned and left, presumably to go get the ice from the cellars, and Jaskier turned back to Geralt, who seemed to at least be partially conscious, although his eyes were unfocused, and he seemed unable to focus on or track Jaskier’s movements. He brought a hand up to his head again, running clumsy fingers over the stitches, and groaning softly.

“Eliza’s bringing some ice for your head and ribs. Do you need anything else? More pillows? Some water?”

Geralt snorted softly, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain that the small jerk of his head seemed to bring.

“Mmm…pillows…for my ribs. Fuck, Jaskier, I can’t see anything. Everything won’t stop…moving.”

Geralt gasped these words out between hitching breaths, clearly impeded by the pain his ribs were causing him. Jaskier gently slid another pillow under his back, trying to ignore the pained noises he made when the bard moved him even slightly.

“Close your eyes a bit, Geralt,” Jaskier tried to speak softly, even though his heart was pounding, fearful that the knock the Witcher had taken was having more permanent damage that he had originally assumed, “You’ll be able to see better when your head’s had a bit of time to rest.”

“Mmm…you’re right. Rest my eyes…a bit.”

Jaskier held back a small smile. As worried as he felt, he couldn’t help but feel a certain fondness for Geralt when he wasn’t all hard edges and boorish grunting. He knew Geralt trusted him, but moments like this, as worrying as they were, confirmed that the Witcher did not simply consider him a nuisance, but someone who could occasionally offer advice and comfort.

“That’s right, just rest your eyes. But don’t fall asleep on me quite yet. I want to make sure you’re going to wake up again before I let you do that.”

“M’tired, Jaskier.”

“I know. But you’ve hurt your head very badly. You know you need to stay awake, I’ve heard you ask me to keep you talking many times after you’ve hit your head. Eliza will be back soon with some ice and then you’ll be more comfortable, and she’s given you some herbs which will help you stay awake.”

Geralt grunted to let Jaskier know that he had heard, but his eyes were slipping shut, becoming more unfocused, and it appeared he no longer had the energy to keep speaking. Concerned, Jaskier gently sat down on the bed next to the Witcher, and brushed some of the sweaty hair away from his friend’s face. He noticed Geralt’s cheek was red and warm under his hand, and although a fever was to be expected after the night he had had, it still made Jaskier feel worried. He resolved to ask Eliza if there was anything they could do about it when she returned; Geralt had enough on his plate without fighting off a fever and shock on top of everything else. 

~0~

Several hours later, Geralt was much more lucid than he had been earlier that day; the ice had done him a great deal of good, and he no longer seemed so confused or in such unmanageable pain. With Jaskier’s help, he was sitting propped up on several cushions (after insisting he was well enough to get out of bed, and promptly vomiting the moment the bard helped him sit up), and listening to Eliza’s report of what had been found on and around the body that he had disposed of out their bedroom window. Part of the mystery, at least, seemed to have been resolved.

“He had a letter commissioning him to kill both myself and Elien. It was written by a man named Valen, who I treated for a tumour several months ago. Myself and another physician tried to perform a surgery to remove the tumour, but we were unsuccessful; he bled too much. We had to leave the tumour in, and told him he would only have about a year to live. It seems he felt we could have done more, and decided that if he was going to die, he would take our families and ourselves along with him. It appears he was successful with my colleague. I only have you to thank, Geralt, that he was not successful here as well.”

Geralt blinked several times, clearly having begun nodding off towards the end of her tale, an arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. He nodded he acceptance, leaning back against the pillows. Eliza had kept him heavily dosed on medications for the pain, and he was still quite foggy. Jaskier was sitting beside him, running his hands ever so gently through the long silver hair, a luxury he never would have been afforded had Geralt been lucid and not suffering from a terrible headache, as well as a low fever.

“I’ll leave you now,” Eliza stood, “I have some business to attend to regarding Elien’s safety and the safety of the rest of my household before I can bring them all back here. I’ll be back in the evening to check in, it should be safe for him to sleep tonight so long as we wake him every couple of hours. Rest will give his body a chance to work off the fever and begin to heal those ribs. I’ll make a sleeping draught tonight when I return.”

Geralt grunted again, nodding his assent, and Eliza turned and closed the door softly behind her, making sure to extinguish the single candle which had been lit by the door to help her prepare herbs and ice, knowing they were probably doing Geralt’s aching head no favours. Once she was gone, Geralt closed his eyes, still unfocused from the milk of the poppy and one to many knocks on the head, and leaned into Jaskier’s hands, allowing them to cup his bandaged forehead.

“Mmm…m’eyes hurt, Jaskier. But that…feels good.”

Gently, Jaskier ran his hand over Geralt’s eyes, smoothing down the eyebrows and the lids, feeling the soft softness of Geralt’s lashes under his fingers.

“Is it still too bright in here?” He asked, gently.

“Mmhmm.”

“Here, maybe this will help.”

Jaskier stood, and retrieved a dark purple scarf from his pack, which was sitting in the corner of the darkened room. It had been a gift from a former lover, and he rarely ever wore it. However, perhaps it would come in useful just this once. Gently, he wrapped the soft silk over Geralt’s unfocused amber eyes, tying it gently behind his head, being careful to avoid the bandage that Eliza had used to cover his stitches.

“Is that better?” He murmured.

“Mhmm…thank you, Jaskier.” Geralt reached up one hand to run it over the soft silk, and then let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“I’m gonna…rest for a bit.”

“I’ll wake you when I need to.” Jaskier reassured, smoothing his hand down over Geralt’s slightly sweat-dampened hair fondly. He felt the remaining breath and tension leave the Witcher’s body in a rush, and almost in tandem he felt the tension and worry leave his body as well. Eliza was well. Geralt was injured, but recovering. And the assassin was dead. All would be well.

He settled down in an armchair by the bed and prepared to get an hour’s rest before he had to wake Geralt again.

~0~

It was three days before Geralt really came back to himself, so pulled down was he by the herbs and medications given to him to dull the pain. During this time, Jaskier spent most of his time sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading, composing, or playing, waiting for Geralt to waken, and waiting for him to heal. Finally, on the morning of the third day, his brows no longer furrowed at the lighting of a candle in the darkened room, and he slept through the night without being woken by the pain in his head and his ribs. When Jaskier woke that morning, he woke to the Witcher watching him intensely with amber eyes that were clearer than they had been in days.

“Morning.” Geralt said shortly, still frowning slightly at the pain in his head. He shifted upwards against the pillows, right arm wrapped protectively around his ribs.

“Goddess, Geralt! You could have woken me instead of just staring at me until I came awake of my own volition.”

“You need the rest.”

Jaskier smiled gently again, turning his head away so the Witcher would not see that his words had affected him so. Geralt claimed he did not want anyone to need him, but the moments when he, given the choice, gave others what they needed without a second though proved otherwise.

“Says the one with three broken ribs and who’s spent the last two days almost completely unconscious. How do you feel about some breakfast? I can bring you something light from the kitchen. Eliza has her cook back now and he makes heavenly soup.”

“Mmm…I still feel fucking sick, but if it’s been two days, I’ll need to eat or I won’t heal.”

It always bothered him how cold Geralt was towards his body, how clinically aware he was of his needs without showing any particular need to fulfill them beyond the basic requirements to keep him alive. There was a distancing, a barrier between his survival and caring for himself that Jaskier never understood. However, if it was getting the Witcher to eat despite his nausea, the bard would take it for what it was.

“I’ll bring you something up. Soup, or eggs?”

“Eggs. And some tea, with raspberry leaf. Should help my stomach. I don’t particularly enjoy the thought of throwing up with my ribs in this state.”

Jaskier nodded sympathetically, and returned several minutes later bringing a plate of scrambled eggs, and tea with raspberry leaf and valerian root, to help Geralt rest, at Eliza’s behest. They sat together in silence as Geralt ate, slowly, wincing every time he opened his jaw too far or turned his head. Clearly, his neck was also sore from the blow he had taken. When he was finished, he turned to Jaskier.

“Pack our things. We need to leave tonight, there’ll be contracts in the next village I can fulfill.”

“Geralt, if you can stand without my help I’ll eat my lute. There’s no way we can leave yet. Give yourself a couple more days to rest before you go off chasing monsters again. You’ll only get yourself killed.”

Geralt rolled extremely painfully to the edge of the bed and sat there, arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, eyes screwed shut, before he stood and limped a few steps before wobbling and collapsing in the armchair. Jaskier raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Geralt’s laboured breaths filled the room, until he finally collapsed, shivering as the cold air hit his pale, scarred chest. Jaskier brought him a blanket and wrapped it gently around his shoulders before brushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. 

“Are you alright?”

Geralt groaned, curling more around his aching ribs.

“Fuck, Jaskier. Maybe we should…leave the travelling for a couple days.”

Jaskier had learned a long time ago that telling Geralt “I told you so” rarely resulted in anything but an argument or a fist to the gut, so he held his tongue.

“Let’s get you back to bed, you can read a book or rest some more. I’ll build up a fire. And in a couple days, when you’re ready, we’ll go find some more contracts. There’s no rush; Eliza won’t make us pay for the time we spend here. Gods know she has money, and we’ve done plenty to help her.”

Weakly, Geralt slumped back into the armchair, looking vaguely relieved as he drew the blanket closer around him. Jaskier built up a fire, and brought him a book, watching fondly as he slowly began to drift off, book dropping from his limp hand and his head falling back against the back of the chair. Outside, a wind disturbed the white gossamer curtains, and somewhere in the courtyard, Jaskier thought he heard Roach whinny softly. He leaned back, content now that all would be well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally found times during the day where I can work on my WIPs while my kids are in school, now that my uni classes are done. Yay! This story got away from me a little bit, since I was meaning for it to just be a one-shot, but I got lots of responses that people enjoyed, so I hope this tied up all the loose ends nicely. Please feel free to drop a comment or kudos if you enjoyed, they mean a lot to me and I'll make sure to get back to you when I have a moment!


	4. Faerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is lured into a trap by a faerie woman who leaves him injured before disappearing into the night. Luckily, he stumbles across Jaskier before things go too poorly.

As a rule, Geralt never killed other humans unless there was absolutely no other choice. He never got involved, never did anything that would even remotely get him caught up in squabbles that did not concern him. However, every couple decades, he seemed to forget precisely why he chose to never get involved, and someone would come along, asking for his help, and he would be unable to refuse. It was a disturbing pattern, and one he had recognized, but seemed unable to avoid. He chalked it up to destiny, and usually came out the other side relatively unscathed, just cursing his seeming inability to stay uninvolved.

However, every once in a while, it seemed, destiny gave him a slight sterner reminder of why he did not belong in the quarrels of men. This time, it had been young woman, who had run out of the woods and into his path as he rode Roach down an little-travelled road. She had stumbled onto the road in front of him, blue dress torn, black hair askew and full of leaves and dirt. She was holding the bodice of her dress together to keep from being completely exposed, and tears tracked their way miserably down her dirty, bruised face. Roach had backed up, startled by the crashing underbrush and by her sudden appearance, and Geralt had dismounted more out of concern for his mare than anything else, half meaning to berate the girl for stumbling out in front of a horse and rider. However, he stopped short when he saw the blood running down her arms, and the tears still streaming from her eyes.

“Please, help me,” she gasped, sobs fleeing her parted lips, “He…he attacked me and hurt me, and he won’t leave me be. I’ve been running for hours. Please!”

There was a certain strangeness in her voice, a desperation that did not seem entirely genuine. At the time, it had seemed simply like the differing affect that fear has on different people, and since reading people was not one of Geralt’s stronger areas, he had concerned himself with it no further. Looking back, however, he should have run. He should have gotten on Roach and fucking fled.

Instead, the Witcher approached the sobbing girl cautiously, quietly unsheathing his sword so as not to frighten her. She threw herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably, and Geralt, unused to anyone throwing themselves at him with any intent other than to cause him harm, nearly dropped his sword, patting her back awkwardly. Yet another sign, he thought in retrospect. A girl who had just been attacked by a man would never allow herself to be so openly physical with another so soon afterwards.

‘Where did this man go?” He rumbled, trying to extricate himself from her arms, which were gripping at him in an unsettling, spasmodic way.

Her shaking hand lifted and pointed back into the woods, from the way she had come. Geralt thought he heard a vague crashing in the underbrush, although it sounded strange to his sensitive ears, indistinct and as though it buzzed slightly.

“Please, he’ll kill me!” The girl held out a coin in her grubby hand, and Geralt took it, thinking she thought perhaps he needed the encouragement, and turned towards the woods.

The minute he stepped off the road and into the woods, Geralt shook his head, feeling vaguely dizzy. There was a definite ringing in his ears now. He turned the coin in his sweaty palm, and felt his amulet buzzing against his chest, his heartbeat picking up. Concern registered lethargically in his brain, but his body would not act on it, instead stumbling drunkenly further into the woods. Belatedly, Geralt realized he had dropped his sword.

“Fuck.” He groaned, stumbling over roots now, even as his vision tunnelled and the trees swirled around him. Their colours were vivid, brighter even than Geralt’s enchanted eyes usually experienced, and he was feeling a deep nausea rolling within his chest. As his vision began to black out completely, Geralt caught sight of something, a dark figure at the corner of his narrowing sight. A girl, he realized, the girl from the road. Only now, her hair was spread out around her head, floating eerily as though she were submerged in water. Her skin was deathly white, almost blinding to Geralt’s drugged, sensitive eyes, and her lips were bright red, the colour of blood. Adrenaline pumped through Geralt’s veins, willing him to stay awake, to fight, to do something, but as the girl’s face moved in close to him, his vision reduced to barely a pinprick of light. He lifted his hand to push her away, do anything to get her away as his medallion vibrated so hard it caused his teeth to chatter. The moment his hand made contact with her face, however, he felt an agonizing pain radiate up from his foot, as though the woman had grabbed his foot and twisted it almost all the way around. Geralt felt bile rising in his mouth, and he vomited, all the while hearing the woman’s light, sweet laughter in the background. He slashed wildly with a knife he kept hidden his boot, and he felt it connect with flesh. Then, he passed out.

~0~

Jaskier had been wandering for several days now, in between large towns, playing in small taverns along the way that did not make him enough coin to actually stay in the town inns. So, he usually found himself camping alongside the road, a skill he had greatly improved since he had spent more time travelling with Geralt. He had not seen the Witcher since Geralt had left to spend the winter in Kaer Morhen, but he was looking forward to regaling his friend with all of his newfound wilderness experiences since they had seen each other last.

Tonight, Jaskier was feeling particularly tired, and, so, he stopped his wanderings earlier than usual, finding a suitable spot on the edge of the little-travelled dirt road which he had been meandering along for most of the day. He took a deep breath as he set down his small pack, breathing in the summer evening air. The woods were alive, birds singing their songs in the trees, the air humming with insect wings and alive in a way that woods can only truly be during the summer. The sun was still decently high in the sky, and hot on Jaskier’s back; he had removed his blue silk coat several hours earlier in favour of a simple white shirt which did a better job of fending off the heat. It would be too hot for a fire for a while yet, so the bard would have to content himself with water and berries for the time being. Resting his back against a fallen tree that was ripe with moss, Jaskier wandered into the woods in search of some strawberries and perhaps a small spring to drink from.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier heard running water, and, humming to himself, he approached the stream, letting out a delighted sound when he realized it was a large enough stream not only to drink from, but to bathe in as well. The bard filled his water skin, collected some strawberries, bathed briefly and ran some sand though his hair to remove the dirt, and settled himself next to the stream on a warm rock, contentedly popping strawberries into his open mouth as he wondered how to work all of the beauty of spring into his next ballad.

Just as Jaskier was beginning to drift off, the heat soaking into his skin and drying his hair, he jumped awake with a start. At first, he was not exactly sure what had woken him, until he heard a crash in the underbrush. Heart pounding, he leapt to his feet and grabbed a small dagger from his boot, which lay abandoned next to the large rock. The cracking noises in the underbrush continued, then suddenly stopped, and were followed by gasping breaths. Cautiously, Jaskier emerged from behind the rock, dagger clenched in his fist even though he knew it would be of little use against most of the creatures that roamed the woods in the evening. However, all he caught sight of was a flash of silver and black, and he almost laughed a sigh of relief when he made sense of what he was seeing.

“Oh! Geralt! It’s just you. I was beginning to fear for the safety of my lute.”

There was no response, and Jaskier advanced slightly, not yet entirely willing to drop the dagger. He had been caught unawares by too many of Geralt’s many-toothed friends to let down his guard entirely until the Witcher reassured him that all was well.

“Geralt? Are you alone, or do I need to start running?”

Still nothing. Jaskier parted the long grass that blocked most of his view of his friend, and his breath hitched in his chest at what he saw. Geralt’s face was pale and there was blood gushing from his nose and mouth, as though someone had taken a fist to his jaw. His hair was matted and filled with leaves, and he was holding himself up on his elbows, clearly unable to get himself back up. Upon further investigation, Jaskier quickly discovered why. His right leg lagged behind him, and the ankle and foot were a bruised and bloody mess, the boot missing, although the other one remained in place. Geralt’s foot was twisted uncomfortably, and swollen purple.

“Great fucking goddess, what in the hell happened to you?”

Jaskier had caught on to Geralt’s penchant for creative expletives during the past years, and it always seemed to serve him well under these circumstances. The bard looked up cautiously, whatever had done this was definitely far beyond the realm of what he could defend himself from. However, the forest was empty, the birds still singing and the crickets and frogs chirping in the evening air.

“Geralt?” Jaskier shook his friend’s shoulder roughly; his head was braced on his arms and he was breathing heavily, so the bard judged that he was still conscious, “While I’m always thrilled to see you come crashing out of the underbrush, I’m going to need a little bit of help here. What can I do to help you?”

Geralt blinked his eyes open blearily, and then gave a gasp that Jaskier normally would have attributed to a drowning man. His eyes opened widely, pupils blown, and he sucked in air as though his life depended on it, clenching his hands spasmodically in the fabric of his shirt. However, beyond the obvious pain, his eyes were clear, there was no sign of drugging or fever, and when he spoke, his words made sense, and sounded very much like himself.

“What the fuck, Jaskier? Where the hell did you come from?”

“I could ask the same question of you. Crashing through the underbrush, disturbing a man’s perfectly peaceful afternoon with your running and gasping and…blood.” Jaskier gestured vaguely at Geralt’s foot, looking rather nauseated.

“Don't know what happened. I was on the road, met a young woman who said someone was after her, and then I don’t remember anything else.”

Jaskier swallowed nervously.

“This…woman, she isn’t lurking around anywhere nearby, is she? I don’t really fancy running into one of your friends right now, seeing as neither of us are in a position to fight or to run.”

Geralt shrugged, and then shut his eyes tightly, shoulders tensing and shivering slightly as a wave of pain passed through him. Jaskier jerked back to the present moment, and to the Witcher’s injuries. They wouldn’t be going anywhere, monsters or no, unless he did something about Geralt’s foot.

“Sorry to interrupt any musing on what or whom this woman might have been, but I’m sensing a more urgent need here.” Jaskier gestured vaguely, still feeling a bit nauseated by all the blood. Years of travelling with Geralt had done wonders for his tolerance for gruesome injuries, but large quantities of blood always made him queasy.

“Hmm,” Geralt rolled lethargically onto his back and levered himself up on his elbows, blinking tiredly as he stared down with a detached sort of gaze at his foot, as though it belonged to someone else, “Probably broke the foot…just clean it, set the bones in the ankle. You know how.”

Jaskier gulped, not relishing the task. He hated setting bones; the idea of causing anyone more pain than the great deal they were already in, even if it was for the better in the end, made him feel ill. However, Geralt looked exhausted. His eyes and face were tight with pain, and there were dark shadows lining his cheeks. The sooner this was over with, the sooner Jaskier could make him some tea and get him warmed and to sleep. There were shivers, from shock or pain, coursing through his body, and the bard knew he needed to keep Geralt warm and help him to rest.

“Do you have any herbs for the pain, anything I can use to knock you out? You look exhausted, I don’t want to put your body through any more than it’s already been through.”

“Some vodka…in my pack.” Geralt’s eyes were slipping shut now; he kept jerking his head upright to rouse himself. 

“Yes, right, of course.” Jaskier retrieved the flask Geralt usually kept reserved for pain relief in such situations.

He handed the flask to Geralt, who lifted it to his lips with shaking, pale fingers, and then slumped back down on the ground, staring up at the stars above with a glassy, unfocused gaze.

“I’ll try and be quick,” Jaskier murmured, running his hands through Geralt’s dirty silver hair, “Just try to rest as much as you can.”

Geralt nodded tensely and allowed his eyes to fall shut, although it looked more forced than as though he were trying to relax. Jaskier took the flask, which Geralt had handed back to him, and poured it in one fell swoop over the Witcher’s ankle and foot. He swallowed as he felt his friend tense up under it, and at the low groan that escaped Geralt’s lips as he grasped at the grass around him in an effort to control the pain. Now that the foot was free of dirt and grime, Jaskier saw Geralt had been right, most of the bruising was concentrated around his ankle, which was swollen and purple. However, there was a large cut which extended from the ankle all the way down to Geralt’s toes, slicing almost down to the bone, and which looked extremely painful. Jaskier winced in sympathy.

“I’m going to have to stitch this. Do you want any more vodka? I think I have some in my bag.”

“I know. And no. Just do it. I want to fucking sleep.”

Jaskier nodded sympathetically and threaded a needle from his pack with thick black thread, the kind he normally reserved for stitching up large rips in his clothes, because it was so sturdy. He brought the edges of the skin along the cut together, relieved that it was straight and not jagged, and then began to sew. Geralt took in a stuttering gasp, clearly trying to control his pain and not entirely succeeding. When Jaskier was about halfway done, having had to stop several times to rinse the slippery blood from his hands, the Witcher let out a low groan, and his eyes, which had remained partially opened throughout the ordeal, although tightened with pain, finally rolled back in his head and his clenched hands went limp at his sides. Jaskier breathed a sight of relief, glad that at least the Witcher would not have to endure resetting the bones in his ankle, which Jaskier knew from his own experience was extremely painful. He quickly finished the last of his row of neat stitches, and wrapped a bit of linen bandaging around Geralt’s foot, and then moved on to his ankle.

The ankle was in horrific condition, clearly being broken in more than one place, swollen to twice its regular size and bruised black, purple and green. 

“Oh, Geralt. We had better get to a town, you won’t be walking anywhere for a while. Please just try and stay asleep while I’m doing this.”

As gently as he possibly could, Jaskier placed one hand on either side of Geralt’s ankle, feeling for the breaks and how he would need to manipulate the bones to get them back into the correct positions. After having spent several years travelling with the Witcher, he had gained a certain adeptness for replacing bones to their correct places. However, he still found himself swallowing bile at the act of doing so. It was a great mercy Geralt had fainted, Jaskier could hardly bear to cause him so much pain when he was awake.

After nearly half an hour of sweating and grunting as he tried to reset the multiple breaks in the ankle properly, during which Geralt had stirred only once, frowning slightly in pain and groaning before passing out again, Jaskier was finally finished. The ankle had clearly been broken for some time already, and he had had to fight against swollen ligaments and tendons to replace the bones to their proper places. It had been rotten work, and Jaskier was exhausted. He hunted in the brush for a couple minutes, and returned with two straight sticks, which he used alongside bandages to splint the ankle. Sighing, he sat back on his heels, and ran a hand across his sweaty brow. Not exactly how he had planned to spend a hot summer evening. However, he was relieved that by some twist of fate Geralt had stumbled upon his encampment. A break like that, left untreated, could have cost him both his ability to walk, and, by extension, his profession.

Jaskier took an extra shirt from his pack and slid it under Geralt’s head, and then moved the rest of his things over close to the stream, since there would be no moving the Witcher until he was at least conscious enough to help. The bard lit a small fire, aware that Geralt was shivering despite the heat of the night, probably from the shock of his wounds, and warmed some tea over it, adding in some chamomile flowers he had gathered for pain relief when the Witcher awoke. Then, he settled back, contenting himself with a few more wild strawberries and raspberries for his dinner, hoping against hope Geralt would not awaken again tonight, and that his bones would start to heal.

However, his hopes were not to be. Just as Jaskier had begun to drift off, listening to the birds singing and the insects buzzing in the trees and the soft crackle of the dying fire, he heard Geralt shift next to him. Immediately he woke completely, sitting up with a start, and rolling over to check in on his friend.

“Geralt, are you awake?”

Geralt shifted his head slightly, dark brows coming together in an expression that was a combination between a frown and a grimace, one hand reaching down to his lower leg while he used the other one to push himself upright. Jaskier quickly placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Try not to move, you’ve been asleep for a while and lost a lot of blood. Can I get you anything?”

Geralt frowned again and winced harshly when he tried to roll his ankle, clearly taking stock of his injuries.

“The fuck…Jaskier? Gods…my ankle.”

“That’s pretty much the gist of it, yes. You came crashing out of the woods this way, raving about women who sent you into the forest. You’ve a badly broken ankle, we’ll need to get you to a town or somewhere a bit more sheltered while you heal. I don’t even think your healing abilities will be able to speed this up much.”

Geralt winced again, but looked relieved when he saw that his ankle had been splinted.

“I’ll be fine…here. Would prefer less noise.”

Jaskier swallowed nervously, not particularly relishing the idea of what would happen should Geralt take a turn for the worst in the middle of the woods, with no mage nearby to help. However, he knew his friend generally healed better away from things that would overwhelm his senses.

“Alright. But the moment you show signs of getting worse, or developing a fever, or anything even remotely untoward, we’re leaving. I suspect Roach is nearby?”

Geralt frowned again and sniffed the air, his senses greatly attuned to his mare’s particular scent.

“Yes, she’s probably…still on the main road. If you’d go get her…I’d like to rest my eyes a bit.”

Of all the statements Geralt had made tonight, this was one of the most concerning. The Witcher normally gave Jaskier an earth-shattering glare if he so much as breathed on Roach. Going to retrieve her without supervision was normally out of the question, unless Geralt was far too incapacitated to do so on his own. However, Jaskier merely took it as a sign that, for one, Geralt was listening to his body and his needs instead of all but crawling back through the woods to go retrieve his horse.

“Yes, you just rest your eyes. I’ll go get Roach.”

Geralt had completely passed out by the time Jaskier returned, Roach in tow. Quietly, he tethered her near a grassy patch by the stream, checked Geralt’s bandages to make sure he hadn’t bled through them, and then lay down, his eyes sliding closed almost instantly.

~0~

The next morning, the sun was shining, and birds were singing brightly in the trees. For a moment, as Jaskier lay luxuriantly on the warm ground with his eyes shut tight, he forgot about the previous day’s ordeals. Then, when he felt the soreness in his arms and legs from the effort of pushing Geralt’s bones back into place, it all came rushing back, and he sat up abruptly.

Geralt was still lying on the ground, in almost the exact same position that the bard had left him in, except now he had brought his leg up to his chest, and was clutching it in both hands tightly, eyes squeezed shut and face clenched with pain.

“Great Melitele, Geralt, if you were in that much pain, why didn’t you just wake me?”

“You looked so peaceful…ahh, fuck, Jaskier, this hurts.”

“I should think so. Its all broken and swollen and I had to spend nearly a half an hour last night putting your bones to rights. Here, I have some milk of the poppy in my pack, which I idiotically forgot about last night when you needed it more. Let me give you some.”

“No. No drugs. Need a clear mind.”

“For what? Do you honestly think you’re going to leap up in your condition and fight off some beast that attacks us? May I remind you, Witcher dear, that I have survived all winter and spring without you. I am more than capable of defending myself.”

Geralt shook his head, grimacing.

“I don’t like how they make me feel. Like my mind is wrapped in cotton. I can’t think right like that, and it dulls all the smells and sounds.”

Jaskier nodded, understanding. He often forgot how much Geralt relied on a sensual world that he couldn’t even imagine. Taking that from him when he was aware enough to understand what was going on would, without a doubt, be deeply upsetting for him.

“Very well. Can I get you some tea? There’s still some chamomile left in the pot from last night, and it should help to dull the pain a bit.”

Geralt nodded, and slowly released his death grip on his ankle, stretching out with a pained noise that fell somewhere between a whimper and a groan. Jaskier passed him the tea, and propped him up enough to drink it, at which point he slumped back into the bard’s lap and let Jaskier run his hands along his scalp and through his silvery hair. 

“Hmmm…that’s good, Jaskier. Hurts less when you do that.”

Jaskier gave a small smile, content to keep Geralt distracted from the pain for now. He continued rubbing his scalp in small circles, humming bits and pieces of melodies until Geralt’s hitching, pained breaths slowly evened out into the soft breaths of sleep. 

~0~

It was several days later before Geralt was able to walk again, and then he was only able to limp along while holding onto Roach, looking very tired. The cut in his foot was all but healed, but Jaskier could tell his ankle was giving him far more trouble than he was willing to admit. He spent most of his days sleeping, clearly exhausted by the toll the injury was taking on his body, and when he was awake he would sit by the stream, grimacing and rubbing his ankle through the bandages.

“Fuck…it’ll be weeks before I can take a contract again.” He groused.

The day after Geralt had woken up for the first time, he had finally acquiesced to being given more milk of the poppy again, and since that time this was the first day he hadn’t needed any painkilling herbs at all. Jaskier could tell he was deeply frustrated with his slow healing progress, despite the bard’s reassurances it would have taken nearly double the time for a regular human to heal from such grievous hurts.

“I can earn us money until you’re well again,” Jaskier said, trying to sound reassuring, “If you can get on Roach, we can get to a nearby town, and I can play while we find a good room in an inn where you can rest, with proper food and a bath. I’m sure the heat will do wonders for that ankle, I know it’s hurting you.”

Geralt nodded, and sat down, stretching his leg out awkwardly in front of him, gesturing with a frustrated, helpless expression at his pack. Jaskier simply nodded and secured the required objects to Roach’s saddle. While the bard went about, cleaning up the odds and ends of their camp, Geralt settled back against a tree trunk and closed his eyes, only opening them again when Jaskier gently shook his shoulder, indicating it was time to leave. He stood up, leaning heavily on the bard, and managed to push himself awkwardly into Roach’s saddle, grunting with frustration and pain, and leaving his one leg resting on the flap below the pommel to keep it a bit more elevated. Jaskier mounted up behind him, simply wrapping his arms around Geralt when he gave a grunt of protest.

“Hush your complaints. If we sit like this, you can sleep while we ride. I know you’re tired and in pain, you could use the rest. I’ll wake you if any horrible beasties come tromping our way.”

Geralt nodded tiredly, and leaned his head back on Jaskier’s shoulder, closing his eyes, letting his breath deepen in time with Roach’s hoofbeats. Jaskier had more than the capacity to deal with most situations should things go ill on the road. He would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! If there's any situations you'd like to see me do or any requests you have, please feel free to drop them in the comments here and I'll fulfill them! I need some more inspiration to finish up this story, and I love filling requests. I also have asks open on my Tumblr for whump prompts, at aloe-casia, so PLEASE fill my quarantined time by dropping prompts there. I would LOVE to fulfill any chump prompts you so desire, and I'll post them on my AO3 and Tumblr. Hope you enjoyed the chapter and thanks for stopping by, hope you're all staying safe out there.


	5. Ghouls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is bested by some ghouls, and Jaskier isn't sure if he has the skills to help him.

It should have been easy, Jaskier thought miserably as he slogged through the mud. It should have been so simple, the bard had seen Geralt take down mightier foes without even unsheathing his sword. And yet, here they were, the Witcher’s sword lost in the mud several miles back (Jaskier would return to retrieve it), Geralt slumped limply on Roach’s back, letting out breathy gasps every time she so much as took a step, with Jaskier slogging through the mud next to them, incapable of doing anything more to help. It should have been so simple, but it had not been.

Jaskier had been wandering slightly behind Geralt and Roach, the former of whom having been in a hideous mood since the morning, when it had been discovered Roach was out of oats, thus meaning they would have to stop in a village. Geralt hated making unplanned stops, he had confided once in Jaskier when they were both very drunk that it did not give him time to prepare for the sensory overload that would undoubtedly overtake him the moment they entered a village or township. So, Jaskier kept his distance that morning, and refrained from strumming on his lute or even singing, trying to give the Witcher space to soak in a few more hours of blessed silence before they entered the nearest town. 

They had entered a marsh a couple miles away from where Jaskier knew the town was, and there had been a low mist hanging over the whole place, thick and choking and cutting their vision down to nearly nothing. Jaskier had to jog to catch up to Roach, so as not to get lost in the fog, and there had been a dead kind of silence hanging over the whole place, frightening and weighty in the air. Jaskier had asked if they should skirt the marsh and go a different way, unable to shake the sense of foreboding he felt. Geralt had declined. He said he could smell some drowners not far off, but that all would be well if they kept to the trail.

All had not been well, clearly, as the drowners had decided that they, too, fancied a walk on the trail. Geralt had sensed them coming, advised Jaskier to stick close to Roach, and then led the horse behind a large rock that stuck out of the muddy ground and the mist like a ragged tooth, leering at them as though mocking their bad fortune. The Witcher had unsheathed his silver sword, told Jaskier he would be back soon, and disappeared into the mist. The bard had stayed close to Roach for her warmth and comfort, hearing the far-off sounds of conflict, muffled by the blanket of mist. He heard Geralt’s sword clanging against something solid, and the sounds of screeching drowners becoming significantly less loud. He sighed with relief as what sounded like a final drowner screamed its last. Jaskier always worried whenever Geralt left to fight, even something as simple as drowners. One never knew when disaster would strike.

Jaskier was just reflecting on the various disasters that had occurred when he had least expected it in the past when he heard a solid thud and a sickening crack on the other side of the rock. At first, he thought perhaps Geralt had removed the drowner’s body from his sword and sent it flying. However, when the noise was not immediately proceeded by the Witcher returning to his horse, Jaskier’s heart sped up slightly. That crack had not sounded pleasant. He was loath to think what had made it if it had not been a drowner. He had crept cautiously around the great stone monolith, keeping one hand planted on its cool surface at all times so as not to lose his way in the fog. He had called for Geralt, cautiously at first and then with more and more concern as he did not receive a response. So frightened had he been for his Witcher that he had nearly tripped over him, lying still at the based of the stone as the fog swirled menacingly around his prone form.

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice echoed emptily around him, returning as it bounced off distant monoliths similar to the one the Witcher and the bard had sheltered under.

Jaskier had dropped to his knees next to Geralt, at first thinking him unconscious. He ran trembling hands over his body, trying to understand what had happened, where the fight had gone wrong. However, when Jaskier had gotten to his head, checking it over for a bleeding cut or lump, he saw Geralt’s eyes were squeezed shut, not in unconsciousness but in extreme pain. His breathing, shallow and gasping, fluttered out over the bard’s hands.

“Geralt? What’s wrong, talk to me! What the fuck happened out there?”

Geralt had squeezed his eyes shut even harder, his breath coming in harsh pants, and for several moments Jaskier simply sat there, his hand frozen on the Witcher’s hair, his heart pounding in fear. Then, Geralt cracked one eye, ever so slightly, and his hand fisted impossibly tightly around the fabric of Jaskier’s grey coat.

“My…hip,” he managed to gasp between teeth clenched so tightly Jaskier had been sure they would crack.

Fearfully, as though any sudden movements might cause irrevocable damage, the bard had begun running his hand down Geralt’s side, until it stopped upon the right hip, which was facing up, the one that would have come in contact with the rock on impact. He had nearly gagged at what he felt. The bone was clearly broken, right at the joint. The hip joint itself was swollen, and Geralt’s leg was twisted and pushed further down than normal, giving the appearance that his right leg was slightly longer than the left one. Looking back, Jaskier considered that it would be a little bit humorous if it hadn’t been so damnably frightening. However, at the time, after taking a moment to calm his gag reflex (while travelling with Geralt had accustomed him to a wide variety of injuries, something of this magnitude was entirely new to him), Jaskier could only focus on trying to get help for his Witcher. This was not a wound he could heal on his own. In fact, he was concerned about whether it would heal at all.

And so, that brought the bard to his present situation, slogging through choking fog and muck, leading Roach behind him, trying to drown out the sounds of breathy whimpers Geralt was making on her back. It had been agonizing even getting the Witcher on his horse; Geralt had passed out pretty much the moment Jaskier had helped him sit, but even in unconsciousness it was clear he was in a great deal of pain, shifting and groaning at the slightest movement. Jaskier was fairly sure he had broken a couple of fingers in his hand where Geralt had gripped it while he settled his friend on Roach. He had managed to tie Geralt onto her back, but it was clear he was in agony, and Jaskier feared for when he would awaken. They were still an hour from the nearest village, and Jaskier wasn’t sure what else he could do until they arrived and found a healer.

“There you go, Roach, good girl,” he soothed, hoping that some of the reassurance he was giving her would transfer to him also feeling a bit better, “We’re nearly there, and you’re doing such a good job taking care of him and making sure he’s alright. Thank you, sweet girl.”

Jaskier continued his monologue as he fought his way through the fog, trying to keep to the road, and cling to the hope that the next town would have a healer who would help them

~0~

There was no pain at first, which was what made the pain all the worse for when it came. All Geralt was aware of was that he was so very, very tired, and that he felt very nauseated and ill, as though he had had too much to drink. However, he hadn’t the slightest idea why. He didn’t remember drinking too much ale the night before. And he was certainly not lying on the ground or in a bed, as he would have expected had he indulged himself a bit too much the previous night. Whatever he was on was moving, sending hot tightness through his whole body with every step it took.

As he was reflecting on this, the pain began, first with a dull ache in his hip and thigh, and then a tight, hot, burning pain that ripped through his body and took the breath out of his lungs. He whimpered, confused, unsure, and having lost all concern about his dignity. His whole body was in agony, his muscles felt as though they were seizing and would not let go. Geralt trembled, and sent a tentative hand back to his right hip, trying to understand exactly what had occurred to leave him in such a state. His vision blurred and swam in time with the beat of his too-quick pulse, but his hands seemed relatively unharmed, a veritable miracle seeing as how utterly harmed he felt.

However, the moment Geralt’s hand came in contact with his hip, whatever pain he had felt before suddenly increased by several orders of magnitude. His vision blacked out, and he felt his cheek sliding along something soft before he hit the what he assumed was the ground, hard, and his world exploded in flashes of red-hot agony. He felt a sound pass through his throat, but he could not hear, could not see, could not feel anything but the radiating agony that pushed outwards from his hip. There were very few times in his life where he had hoped and prayed to the Gods to pass out, but this was one of them. 

As he lay on the cold ground, whimpering and panting, trying to get his breathing and pain back to manageable levels, Geralt felt a soft hand come in contact with his shoulder, and vaguely heard, as though through water, someone murmuring to him. Good. He was not alone then. That increased his likelihood of survival significantly. Gritting his teeth, Geralt reached out blearily towards the sound, hoping to discover its owner’s identity. A hand, gloved in soft leather, wrapped around his own, grounding him, and the other hand brushed through his hair gently, tenderly, almost lovingly.

“Oh, Geralt,” he heard the voice say, in the sweet tones of someone who thinks in song, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I can’t help you, I know this is agony. We’ll get you settled and safe soon enough. Let’s just get you back on Roach and into a town so I can find you a healer.”

Geralt still did not recognize who the voice, or who would want to treat him so kindly when he was in pain, but he wanted to tell the person that there was no need to apologize, that it could have been so much worse. He felt swirling guilt in his stomach for having caused whoever this was the inconvenience of having to care for him when he was feeling so poorly. It was not an easy task, he knew from having done it many times on his own before.

There were the gentle hands again, then, lifting under Geralt’s arms and then slinging one over a slender shoulder. Geralt gasped, unable to get enough air into his lungs past the burning pain in his leg. He felt hot and dizzy and very, very unwell, and with every throb of pain his stomach churned until eventually he vomited, not even having the strength to turn away. Hot shame tied itself in a tighter knot inside him, he did not want to cause such distress for whoever was caring for him. However, Geralt was exhausted, and he found his head dropping down to lean on the person’s shoulder, grounding himself on the sweet words that came falling from their lips like water from a stream. His vision was dimming, swirling more than it had been, and he felt so very ill and tired, as though all his energy were simply draining away, pouring onto the ground. He hurt terribly, and the voice helped, and eventually he closed his eyes and fell into an uneasy, pained rest, until he knew no more. 

~0~

Jaskier was beginning to feel very worried. Geralt was weakened and exhausted, hanging from Roach’s saddle, unable to keep from vomiting up bile, choking in pain with almost every step his beloved mare took. If the bard had thought he was out of his depth before, he was now entirely convinced of it. They did not even have herbs to dull the pain his Witcher was in; Geralt had used the last of their milk of the poppy to dull Jaskier’s pain after he had sprained his wrist, a triviality compared to what Geralt was experiencing now.

And so, the bard had no choice but to walk on, stopping occasionally to stroke Geralt’s soft hair or rub his hands when he seemed particularly distressed. After the last time the Witcher had slipped from Roach, he had not regained any more consciousness than slight moments of awareness, during which he would squeeze his eyes shut tightly and make noises Jaskier could only describe as whimpers and groans. The bard had never heard Geralt make such noises before, even when he had been very badly wounded, and it frightened Jaskier more than he cared to admit. And, as though to add insult to injury, the marsh was beginning to darken with the crepuscular glow of nightfall. The bard had travelled with Geralt long enough to know that being stuck in a marsh after dark was, at best, a recipe for serious wounds, and, at worst, a death sentence. And so, he hurried on, the only sounds in the hushed mist Roach’s footfalls and breaths, Geralt’s hitching gasps, and the sound of his own pounding heart.

Just as the bard was beginning to find a familiarity in the hushed silence that seemed to surround them, Geralt shifted on Roach, causing him to jump from the semi-dazed stupor that he had fallen into. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered gently, hoping not to startle his friend too much, “Are you awake?”

Geralt’s face went from a gentle scowl to an anguished frown, and he clenched Roach’s mane tightly between his hands. Sweat dripped from his brow.

“Mmm…Jaskier, s’that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Do you know where you are?”

Geralt blinked confusedly, his eyes barely making it open before they fell shut exhaustedly again.

“No…fucking hurts. What got me?”

Jaskier ran his hand carefully through Geralt’s hair. He had noticed there was a small lump on the back of his head, probably also from hitting the rock, and he tried his best to work some of the dried blood gently out of the Witcher’s hair as they continued walking. 

“It was a drowner. We’re in a marsh, in the middle of Goddess knows where, and I’m fairly sure your hip is broken, which I regret to say is beyond even my great skill to heal. I’m taking you to a village to someone who can help you properly.”

Geralt nodded, although the confused look in his amber eyes suggested he hadn’t fully understood was Jaskier had told him. There were even longer pauses in between his blinks now, and his breathing was hitching and full of pain. It was clearly through force of will alone that he forced his eyes open one more time, and looked Jaskier directly in the eyes.

“Thank you.” He ground out, before clenching his teeth back together tightly, as though trying to keep any other sounds of anguish from slipping out.

“But of course,” Jaskier smiled with forced levity, “Anything for you, Witcher dear. I only wish you would try a bit harder to take care of yourself. It’s difficult to see you in such pain with no way to help.”

Geralt gave the bard an amused, slightly drunken smile as his eyes slid the rest of the way closed again, his head thumping back down on Roach’s neck, leaving Jaskier alone again.

~0~

It seemed many hours after Geralt had been lucid the last time before Jaskier finally saw the lights of a small village dancing in the distance, even though he knew really it had probably only been about half an hour. His feet and calves ached from slogging through the mud for hours, and there was a constant, niggling fear at the back of his mind that perhaps this time he would be too late, he wouldn’t get Geralt to the help he needed in time. There was always that fear, though. Jaskier had learned to live with it, to a certain extent. And now that the village was close, he felt less fear. While the Witcher had not been conscious for a long time, his breathing remained even, and at least he was not losing blood. It could be worse.

Sighing with relief as he led Roach under the ramshackle gate that heralded his entrance into the small village, Jaskier immediately sought out the guardsmen standing at arms at one end of the gate. They were drinking heavily, and deep into a game of cards as he approached, signalling that it was probably already deep into the night.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” Jaskier spoke softly so as not to surprise the drunken guards, “Would I be able to trouble you to point me in the direction of the healer? My friend is in grave need of aid.”

The nearest guard gave a boorish grunt that would put Geralt’s to shame, and waved an arm shakily in the general direction of a house across the poorly lit town square, which Jaskier took as direction enough. The town was tiny; there were only three or four houses that did not look like shacks, so he figured following the guard’s directions to one of the nicer homes was probably a safe gamble. Healers did not come cheaply, especially in these parts.

Apprehensively, the bard, leaving Roach with Geralt still on her back tethered a short distance away, approached the rickety steps and gave the solid, oaken door a knock. There was a pattering of footsteps on the other side, a crash as though some dishes had fallen, and then the door opened a crack, revealing a young lady’s brown eye and pale, freckled face.

“What do you want?” She demanded standoffishly, “It’s late. I was sleeping.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Jaskier put on his best dashing smile, insulting her would do neither of them any good, “But my friend was injured killing some drowners in the marsh outside your town, and it’s beyond my skill to heal. I would simply trouble you for your help resetting the bone.”

The girl, for she was only that, looking to be barely twenty years old, opened the door a little bit further.

“If he trifled with drowners, it was his own fault. Everyone knows to leave them to experienced fighters and Witchers. I’ll help you in the morning. He can wait.”

Jaskier caught the door in his hand just as she was about to slam it in his face.

“Wait! He is a Witcher! Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf? Surely you’ve heard of him.”

The girl stopped in her tracks, with the door nearly closed, and her eyes widened.

“Geralt of Rivia? The white-haired Witcher? Are you absolutely sure?”

“It’s hard to mistake him for anyone else,” Jaskier responded, rather snidely. He did not take kindly to having doors slammed in his face.

The girl’s face broke into a broad, toothy grin, lighting up despite the dirtiness and dinginess of the town and the house around her. She opened the door the rest of the way, exposing a slight, starved frame dressed in a faded blue dress, curly brown hair, and eyes that were too wide for her small, malnourished looking face.

“I would always welcome the White Wolf, and anyone who travels with him,” she smiled, in a much brighter voice now, “He saved my mother and I from a prowling werewolf on the roads outside of town many years ago. I’ve waited many winters to repay my debt to him for giving me my life. Please, come in!”

Hurriedly, Jaskier returned to Roach, promising her he would be back out shortly to divest her of her tack, and then he gently placed a hand on Geralt’s forehead, hoping to wake him as gently as possible.

“We’ve found a healer,” he murmured, “I just need you to wake up a bit so we can get you off the horse, and then we’ll get you settled and feeling better.”

Geralt stirred, although it was clear he was far from conscious. The healer had descended from her house and helped Jaskier slide the Witcher down from Roach’s back, and then they each slid under one of his arms and dragged him up the steps and into the house, Jaskier wincing every time he felt Geralt flinch as his wounded leg bounced along the uneven ground. The healer laid Geralt down in a bed which was clearly very recently slept in, probably her own, and lit a candle, muttering to herself when she saw the damage.

“Geralt,” she murmured softly, “I need you to stay awake, to tell me what happened. I can only fix this if I know how you broke it.”

Geralt blinked up at her, with no recognition in his eyes, and looked to Jaskier, who nodded.

“She’s a healer, and apparently one whose life you’ve saved. She’ll help us.”

Blinking blearily, Geralt frowned, as though trying to bring the memory back to the surface of his confused mind.

“Drowners…” he whispered, his voice so weak and strained it was barely there, “Hit a rock. Think…think my hip…it’s broken.”

The healer smiled gently, clearly needing a few more details, but pressed no further.

“That’s alright for now. I’m going to give you some milk of the poppy, to help you sleep, and then I’ll reset the bone while you’re asleep.”

She poured some white liquid into a cup of water, and, placing her hand gently on the back of Geralt’s neck, helped him drink. Jaskier rubbed his back when he coughed weakly, feeling rather useless, and stroked his hair softly as he lay back against the pillow, his eyes growing dizzy and unfocused.

“Jaskier?” He rasped, exhaustedly, “Where’m I?”

“Oh, Geralt. You’re safe. We’re taking care of you in a village…” He petered out and turned to the healer questioningly.

“The town of Arryn, close to the border between Redania and Temeria. My name is Siva.”

Geralt nodded, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Jaskier was always surprised that, after all the monsters he had killed and people he had saved, he often still remembered both their looks and their names, even decades later. Clearly, his subconscious still remembered saving Siva and her mother from the werewolf when she was a girl, even if he was too weak to express it or wonder at it now.

“My…thanks.” He slurred, his eyes drifting slowly towards each other, giving him a cross-eyed look that would have been amusing if Jaskier wasn’t so worried.

They waited several more minutes while Geralt clenched his hands on the sheets, clearly fighting the milk of the poppy that was trying to hard to pull him towards sleep. Eventually, Jaskier went and sat with him, pulling his sweaty head into his lap and running his calloused fingers gently through the Witcher’s dirty silver hair, all the while humming a low tune he usually reserved for late nights, when patrons were too deep into their cups to request more raucous songs. Eventually, as though carried by Jaskier’s hands and singing, Geralt’s grip on the quilt loosened, and his breathing evened out slightly.

“Right. Good.” Siva smiled at him, “I was worried he would never fall asleep. It’s best to reset the bone now, while he’s still so exhausted he probably won’t wake.”

Jaskier nodded, swallowing nervously. He knew that, done wrong, resetting a hip bone could cause the patient to lose their leg. He only hoped Siva knew what she was doing.

“How can I help?” He asked, nervously.

“Just stay there and hold his head. Even if he isn’t awake, this will likely cause him a good deal of pain. It’s for the best to have someone there for him.”

Siva went about her work, preparing straight sticks for a splint and washing her hands in a bowl of hot water. Then, taking a deep breath, she placed one hand on either side of Geralt’s hip, which was now swollen and bruised almost black, and, in one deft, swift movement, she threw all her body weight against it, pushing it back to the proper placement. In an instant, Geralt, who had been resting fitfully, sat almost bolt upright against Jaskier with what he could only describe as an unearthly sound, more like one of the monsters Geralt killed than the Witcher himself. Gently, Jaskier ran his hands through the Witcher’s hair, hushing him softly, and felt great relief when he passed out again after several seconds, clearly in too much pain to have ever been truly aware. Jaskier prayed he would forget it.

Sighing, Siva splinted and wrapped Geralt’s leg, placing cold water and herbs under the bandages to help with the bruising, and then poured herself and Jaskier some vodka as they sat down next to the fire, exhausted.

~0~

Geralt could hardly breathe from the agony he was in the moment he became aware. His whole right side burned, fiercely, with the achy, hollow pain that could only be brought on by a broken bone. Agonized, Geralt weakly reached down to touch the offending limb, trying to keep his eyes squeezed shut, and let out a rather undignified whimper the moment his hand came in contact with his leg. Immediately, he felt cool hands on his forehead, and a voice which he now recognized as Jaskier’s speaking gently to him.

“Shhh, shh, you’re alright. Just close your eyes and rest for a while. Your body is still healing.”

Geralt reached for his hand, and, having found it, closed his eyes the rest of the way again, utterly exhausted, feeling sick from the pain and what was no doubt a cornucopia of pain-reducing herbs running through his blood. He was very weak and nauseous, and, although he was loath to admit it, wishing for nothing more than to go back to sleep. Relieved Jaskier was there, he slipped back into a semi-aware state, floating on the edge of sleep but in too much pain to let himself fall all the way. Finally, he felt the bard’s calloused hand in his neck, lifting him to drink something that tasted cloyingly sweet, and then resting his head gently back on the pillow.

“Just rest, Geralt. I’ll be here when you wake.”

The world swirled and dimmed, and Geralt’s consciousness faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was from a wonderful prompt, and I super enjoyed writing it! Feel free to send me in more, I'll get to work on them ASAP both here and on my Tumblr!


	6. Rebroken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of the first chapter, Geralt hasn't recovered as well as he has let Jaskier believe. When they stop in an Elven keep so Jaskier can play and earn them a bit of coin, things don't entirely go to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This monstrosity of a chapter is a continuation of the story that took place in the first chapter, so you may want to head back and review the events of that chapter before reading this one. However, it could probably stand on its own as well, everything is reviewed and explained. Enjoy!

It had been nearly a week after Geralt’s arm was injured by the kikimore when Jaskier was asked to perform at the home of a Redanian nobleman named Erick, who was betrothing his daughter to a Temerian lord and apparently required the finest entertainment in the land in order to give a celebration worthy of his daughter, who was apparently a great beauty. Jaskier accepted, although reluctantly. He knew Geralt did not like attending courtly affairs, and he had been more irritable than normal as his arm had begun to heal; Jaskier thought it must be paining him terribly, as he had not even picked up his sword since he had begun to heal. However, Geralt’s injury meant that they were low on provisions, with no source of income other than Jaskier’s singing, and playing for Lord Erick promised good pay. So, they had turned away from the wilds for a couple of nights, arriving at Eritrea Hall, Lord Erick’s home and an ancient elven fortress whose beauty was surpassed only by the strength of its walls. Jaskier was actually quite relieved as they approached the fortress that Geralt would have a quiet place to rest for a couple nights, it was clear his arm was causing him a great deal of pain, and that he was exhausted by his wounds and travelling, even though he did his best to hide it. When he thought Jaskier was not looking, he would rub his shoulder constantly, and he had not stopped taking painkilling and sleeping herbs since he first experienced the injury, even though Jaskier knew with his healing abilities he should have been almost better by now, certainly not needing herbs to dull the pain just so he could get some sleep.

As they rode through the vale, Jaskier tried again at a fruitless conversation he had been trying to begin with the Witcher since he had been well enough to travel again.

“Are you sure you don’t need to see a healer, Geralt? I may not know much about Witcher physiology, but I do know you have exceptional healing abilities, and that you should be well on your way to fully recovered by now. We can stop and see a healer while we’re in Eritrea; Lord Erick lacks for nothing here and I’m sure he would be willing to help you as part of my payment for performing.”

Geralt grunted, and continued rubbing at his heavily bandaged arm. He had fashioned himself a more serviceable sling out of an old shirt; clearly a necessary measure seeing as how every time Jaskier had seen him try to go without the support it offered it had ended with curses of pain and frustration.

“I’m fine, Jaskier. Just sore.”

“You’ve barely been sleeping. You look like you’ve smudged ashes under your eyes, and you’re pale as death, even more so than normal. Do you really think I’m so blind that I don’t notice these things? It’s been nearly a week.”

Geralt just sighed, one of many sighs that Jaskier had learned to interpret in his time travelling with the Witcher. 

“I’ll go see a healer if it’s still troubling me when it’s time for us to leave. On my own coin.”

Seeing this as a victory, as the Witcher had stubbornly refused to stop in any of the villages they had passed by on the way to Eritrea, Jaskier subsided into silence, leaving Geralt to his pained breathing and low cursing as they meandered down the valley. Birds chirped in the trees overhead, and the sun was shining down, bringing with it the scent that is so particular to pine trees on a hot day, a warm, minty smell that surrounds the senses. Jaskier basked in the warmth, feeling the soft sponginess of the pine needles giving way under his boots, and removed his doublet, allowing the sun’s warmth to soak into the dark fabric of his shirt. Geralt was still hunched under his cloak, but he had been in an abominable mood for days, and often took refuge under his hood for quiet just as much as he did for warmth. Jaskier tried to shake off the unease that settled over him, hoping to play, collect his coin, and be on their way, with Geralt feeling renewed after a few nights’ rest.

\----

After having arrived at Eritrea and receiving a surprisingly warm welcome from Lord Erick; usually not something Jaskier could expect when he was travelling with Geralt, the bard decided to get out a bit and explore the tow surrounding the great castle. As they had entered in through the gate, Jaskier had seen fine silks, scented oils, and other finery that he so enjoyed. Secretly, he wanted to buy something beautiful for Geralt as well. Most of his shirts were ruined, either through injury or simple overuse. He only had two, and one of them was suffering greatly; most of the buttons had either fallen or were in the process of falling off of the collar. Jaskier knew Geralt’s skin was highly sensitive, his aversion to touch of any kind was a clear enough indicator of that, and most of his shirts were poorly made and abrasive. After a difficult few months in the wild, the bard thought it was the least he could do to give the Witcher something small to ease his constantly overstimulated senses.

“Geralt, I’m going to wander a bit in the market, would you like to come with me? Perhaps find an armourer and get some repairs done?”

Geralt, who had slumped in an armchair without even removing his cloak, looked up briefly, his eyes looking duller and exhausted.

“I’m fine. I don’t have the coin for repairs, and I would rather stay and rest before you play tonight, assuming you’ll be needing my services to save you from the slighted men of this court?”

Jaskier nodded, although he felt a good deal of guilt asking Geralt to accompany him tonight. The Witcher looked exhausted.

“At least take your cloak and boots off before I go? It’s considered very bad form to fall asleep in your host’s armchair when you still have your muddy travelling clothes on.”

“Mmm. I may need…” Geralt trailed off, gesturing at his arm with a vaguely pained expression on his face.

“Oh! Yes, of course. I suppose it would be of equally bad taste for me to leave you here alone and unable to even take off your wet boots. My apologies. I keep forgetting.”

This was not, precisely speaking, true. Jaskier knew well enough Geralt was having trouble moving his shoulder and arm, so much so he could barely even shrug off his cloak, let alone remove his boots. However, the bard kept hoping against hope that the problem would simply resolve itself, that he would wake one morning to find Geralt waiting impatiently next to Roach, ready to depart, instead of sitting next to the fire, cursing fiendishly and in several different languages, as he tried to get his boots on despite the pain. However, it had been nearly a week, far beyond the normal time such an injury would have taken to heal, and here they were. Jaskier tried to push down the increasingly frequent feeling of dread as he knelt next to his friend and gently unlaced his horrifically dirty boots, slipping them off and setting them next to the door to be cleaned. Then, he undid the silver clasp on Geralt’s cloak and piled it on top of the boots, not daring to shake out the dust inside the room, fearing for his lungs.

“Thank you,” Geralt breathed, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes tiredly, “Wake me when you return?”

Ignoring another small thrill of panic, Jaskier nodded. Normally, Geralt’s internal clock was infallible, and often more reliable than most mechanical clocks. He never failed to wake himself precisely when he was required to, unless he was injured, exhausted, or very drunk.

“Do you need me to bring you back anything from the market? Herbs, supplies, anything at all?”

There was no response, and Jaskier realized that Geralt must have taken some painkilling herbs either while they were still travelling or shortly after they had arrived at Eritrea, because he was dead to the world, in a way that only a drugged sleep could induce. Fondly, Jaskier removed his own cloak (it was too hot a day for it anyways, although Geralt had seemed cold on their way in), and draped it over the Witcher’s shoulders, smoothing it affectionately. Then, adjusting the straps on his own boots, he turned, exited the room, and jogged down the stone steps that led from their quarters to the main part of the palace, where he exited through the main gate, crossing the drawbridge into town.

After several weeks in the wild, even the outgoing bard always found the intoxicating combination of sights and smells of a city nearly overwhelming. The vibrant colours, sounds and smells of the market assaulted him, but unlike his silent companion, Jaskier revelled in the sensory overload, in the feeling of each one of his senses being filled to the brim with the excitement and vivaciousness of life. He breathed in the air, the scent of horses, of foods being cooked, and ran his hands across soft silk scarves and doublets on display. Jaskier approached the man selling the clothes, and found some fine, black woven shirts of the type and cloth he knew Geralt preferred. One had a gentle floral pattern embroidered on it with soft silver thread, and though it was more expensive, Jaskier added it to the pile, along with a soft silk scarf for himself, and paid with the last of his coin, feeling a small thrill of anxiety as he dipped into his purse and found it almost empty. All would be well, he would be paid in full after his performance tonight, and Gods knew Geralt needed some new things. Jaskier didn’t mind treating him to something a bit nicer, knowing Geralt would never choose to do so himself. After he had made his purchase, he turned to meander further into the town, determined to enjoy his time fully until he was required to return to the palace to perform.

\----

Geralt woke with a start, sweating and gasping, and immediately he suppressed a groan of pain as his arm was jolted by his waking, fiery pain shooting up through the whole limb and into his neck, which he massaged tiredly with his good hand. It was not uncommon for him to suffer from painful waking when he was drugged, but the past near week of being in a haze of painkilling herbs just to allow him to get any rest at all was beginning to take its toll. He coughed tiredly, and watched as the stone-walled room floated and dipped around him, no doubt also a side effect of the herbs he had taken. He had no real memory of arriving here, and no sense of why he was here now beyond the vague awareness that Jaskier had to perform. Frustrated and confused, he tentatively removed his arm from its sling, barely suppressing another groan as the sore muscles and bones screamed in protest. Normally, even such a catastrophic wound should have healed to a point where he had a decent range of motion days ago. Geralt had sneaking suspicions as to why his wounds were not healing as they should, but in his addled state it was easy to push them aside, dismiss the idea that his bones were not healing because they had not been set properly as an overreaction, a product of his drugged mind. Jaskier had been the one to set the bones for him, and he knew that the sensitive bard’s guilt would be overwhelming if Geralt had to go to a healer to have the bones re-broken in order to set them properly due to Jaskier’s mistake.

And so, Geralt pushed that thought from his mind. Jaskier had been kind, so kind and gentle and caring in a way few people had ever been when he had set the broken bones. Geralt did not want to cause him any pain after all the tenderness he had given. Sighing, he raised himself from the chair, hunching over as the muscles by his injured arm cramped up. He ran a trembling, tired hand over the muscles, massaging them weakly. No amount of massaging was able to work out the aches and knots he felt, the pulling of muscles in way they were not meant to be pulled. Geralt limped over to the bed, stopping at his pack on the way over to retrieve a large tome on the compilation and use of various spells Jaskier had found for him a few months ago, hoping that perhaps he would be able to stay awake long enough to read a bit of it. He settled back stiffly on the pillows, and made a tenuous pile of blankets next to him on which he could support his aching arm, knowing it would only cause worse muscle aches to keep it in the sling without allowing it to stretch. However, by the time Geralt had settled his arm, and stopped taking deep breaths through his nose at the pain, the roof was swimming in front of his eyes again, and his eyelids were so heavy that every time he blinked they threatened not to open again. Frustrated, he let a heavy breath flow through his nose, partially to control pain and partially as a way to express how very unwell he felt. The sleeping herbs made him dizzy and ill, and he was still in a great deal of pain, even after having taken as much as it was safe to do. A very small part of Geralt wished Jaskier had stayed, wished he was here. Sometimes over the past week, when Geralt had been half asleep and out of his mind with pain and the herbs used to counteract it, Jaskier had stroked the Witcher’s hair softly, humming soothingly to himself. And now he was not here, Geralt felt himself aching for that gentle touch again. The bard was always so gentle towards him, in a world that had little gentleness to spare for mutants and broken things. 

Geralt must have fallen asleep, because it was some time later when he jerked awake again, his stomach rolling and cramping uncomfortably. He had rolled over, and his arm burned, all the muscles cramping up so badly he couldn’t have moved it had his life depended on it. A rather pitiful noise of pain and confusion escape his lips; the room was still spinning and, if it was possible, he felt even more exhausted than he had before he had fallen asleep. Blearily, he lifted his head from the flattened pillow to see what had woken him, starting with surprise and fear at how long it had taken him to notice that the door was standing wide open. Heart pounding, cursing the herbs that made his mind muddled and his head ache, Geralt flipped onto his back to see who had entered, one hand already searching for his dagger. 

Jaskier was standing by the fire, next to a large pile of parcels set neatly in the chair that Geralt had fallen asleep in earlier. He looked absolutely thunderous.

“Do you really expect me to think there’s nothing wrong with you after that little performance? I’ve seen a squirrel wake you from slumber because it jumped from one branch to another. I’ve been standing here for nigh on ten minutes, and you haven’t so much as stirred besides to grimace and grunt every time you move your arm so much as an inch. We’re getting you to a healer. Now.”

Geralt grunted and pushed himself up on his god arm, doing a poor job of concealing the shudder of pain that wracked him.

“I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll see a healer tomorrow.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows lifted so high that Geralt wondered hazily if they would disappear under his hairline, before realizing that was a ridiculous thought, and that he must be more out of it than he had realized.

“If you’re so fine, then I’m assuming you’re well enough to accompany to my performance tonight? Protect me from the many ill-wishes of vengeful Redanian noblemen?”

Jaskier clearly meant it as a challenge, a way to force Geralt into admitting he was feeling too poorly to accompany the bard and therefore send him to a healer instead, and for a moment, Geralt was tempted to rise to the bait. He felt awful. His head ached, and he was exhausted, and all the muscles in his broken arm and shoulder pulled in a way that could only be described as both very painful and just simply _wrong_. However, he then remembered what he believed to be the cause of his affliction, and how he knew Jaskier would react if he found out he was at least partially responsible for Geralt’s pain (at least this was how Jaskier would see it; Geralt did not assign any blame to anyone other than himself for being clumsy enough to get injured in the first place). He couldn’t be responsible for placing that kind of guilt on the bard’s shoulders. He would go to see a healer tomorrow, when Jaskier was sleeping off his performance. With any luck, and his quick healing, he would be able to hide the pain of re-breaking the bones until they were healed, and Jaskier would simply think it had been a particularly troublesome wound. It wasn’t even exactly a lie. Just the omitting of certain facts. Geralt steeled himself.

“Of course I’m well, although I’ve no doubt if there was anything to make me feel unwell it would be attending a betrothal full of boastful noblemen claiming to have defeated monsters that don’t exist.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows creased, And Geralt reflected on how expressive his eyebrows were. If all his other features were gone, Geralt thought he would probably still be able to guess the bard’s mood from the shape of them. He chuckled to himself, barely managing to restrain himself from bursting into outright laughter. Belatedly, he berated his exhausted brain for trying to betray him. Jaskier would never believe he was fine if he started cackling like a loon. Quickly, he schooled his features, focusing on the pain in his arm instead of the distracted, feverish thoughts whirling in his head. 

“If you insist on coming,” Jaskier continued, clearly seeing this was not a battle he was going to win, “I bought you some new shirts. Yours are barely holding together, and you’re going to need to look like you don’t live in a forest tonight.”

Geralt heaved himself to his feet, turning his head away from Jaskier so the bard wouldn’t see his grimace of pain, and steadied himself on the bedpost as a wave of dizziness nearly knocked him off his feet. Normally, he probably would have protested Jaskier buying him anything, particularly clothing, but he was in so much pain and feeling all around quite poorly, so he simply held out his good arm to accept the fine shirt Jaskier handed him. 

“No thank you? Those didn’t come cheap, you know.”

Guiltily, Geralt raised his eyes, trying to keep them from scrunching up in the corners as his pupils were confronted by the bright light streaming in from the windows.

“My thanks, Jaskier.”

Jaskier bowed extravagantly, always the showman.

“I am at your service, Witcher dear, though your manners leave much to be desired.”

The pain in Geralt’s arm was briefly replaced by a slight feeling of warmth that bloomed in his chest. However, he was probably running a fever from the exhaustion that was even now threatening to pull him down again. Tiredly, he ran a shaky hand through his messy hair in a vain attempt to tidy it up, and then began the arduous and painful process of divesting himself of his clothes, trying to move his aching and fiery arm as little as possible.

\----

Jaskier felt panicked. Having returned to find Geralt fast asleep, slumped uncomfortably in bed and making noises he could only describe as whimpering every time he moved, the bard had been sure that even Geralt wasn’t stupid enough to turn down a healer. Clearly, there was something wrong with the Witcher that was beyond both his and Jaskier’s abilities to fix. However, here they were, Geralt walking next to him with a face that was tight with pain, about to spend a night at a betrothal feast instead of getting Geralt to a healer. The only reason Jaskier had not simply thumped the Witcher on top of the head and dragged him to the nearest apothecary was because of the vaguely pleading tone that had entered Geralt’s voice when he had assured Jaskier he was well enough to accompany him tonight. Clearly, whatever was stopping Geralt from seeking help, it was important. And, despite all appearances to the contrary, the Witcher knew his limits. Jaskier tried to reassure himself that, given time and space, Geralt would do what needed to be done.

As soon as they entered the hall, full of clamouring noise and heavy aura of too many young men crammed into too small a space, Geralt wandered away to a distant corner and leaned himself heavily on the wall. Jaskier followed, mostly out of a supreme desire to not see Geralt fall unconscious before the appetizers had even been served.

“It’s a while yet before I’ll perform,” he said softly, “Perhaps we could find somewhere quiet where you could sit down? I know your arm is hurting, no matter what you say.”

Geralt fiddling absentmindedly with the knot that tied the sling behind his neck, looking deeply uncomfortable.

“I’m fine. Go find Lord Erick, ingratiate yourself before your performance. I know how you like to work; I won’t get in the way of that. I can take care of myself.”

Biting his tongue to keep himself from making a sharp comment about how Geralt was currently proving he was _not_ capable of caring for himself as well as he should be, Jaskier gave him a healthily disapproving glare.

“Fine. But please don’t stay if you don’t want to. I’m sure I’ll be fine even without your frightening countenance here to stand guard.”

Geralt nodded tightly and returned to massaging his shoulder, grimacing painfully.

“Bring me an ale if you get a chance.” The Witcher called after the bard’s retreating back, and Jaskier frowned at how quiet he was, how tired he seemed that he could not even get himself intoxicated without someone bringing him the goods. However, he had promised himself to stay out of whatever was keeping Geralt from seeking help, at least until the feast was over. If he was going to take the Witcher to see a healer, he had best make some coin to pay them with first. 

\----

Geralt watched with a certain fondness as Jaskier wiped the sweat from his brow, a testament to the physical effort that went into two hours of performing. After the ale had begun flowing, Geralt had begun first feeling considerably better as the alcohol numbed his pain, and then considerably worse as the alcohol affecting his body and his brain became known to him in full force. Geralt was now existing in a state of feverish lethargy; his head felt like it was floating several feet away from his body, and he was swallowing against the bile that kept working its way into his mouth. The alcohol exacerbated his already exhausted state, and the colours and sounds of music and laughter and the stepping of many feet and the sounds of many different conversations whirled around him like birds in a hurricane; disorganized and fearful. At the centre of this hurricane stood Jaskier, brown hair plastered to his forehead, smiling winningly with blindingly white teeth. Geralt thought, dizzily, that he would be happy sitting slumped against the wall and watching the bard play for the rest of the night.

As he allowed himself to drift in and out of a semiconscious haze, Geralt was vaguely aware of the atmosphere around him changing, of things slowing down and growing quieter. The lady, Lord Erick’s daughter, had retired, and many of the lords were in various states of drunken disarray, sprawled about the dining hall. Geralt himself felt similarly impaired, his head spinning and the pain in his arm returning with a vengeance. Now that the feast seemed to be grinding to a drunken halt, he suspected Jaskier would want to return to their chambers and sleep what remained of the night away. Trying to suppress a groan at the thought of standing up, Geralt braced his good arm on the floor, trying not to reflect on how even his good side was now fiery with pain, all the muscles in his body protesting at the unnatural pull of his broken arm and shoulder. Dazedly, he began to reflect on how, at the time he had started drinking, there was very little chance that all the painkilling herbs he had taken had fully worn off. An amateur’s mistake, and not one he would have made had he been able to think through the pain. However, his bones felt as though they were grinding together, ripping muscles wide open and leaving him gasping at every movement he made, and the alcohol mixed with the herbs was making him dizzy and so sick he thought for sure that the contents of his stomach were about to become reacquainted with the outside world again. When Geralt was about halfway to standing up, the world began to spin around him faster, and while he was still berating himself for being such an idiot (what kind of Witcher doesn’t anticipate the effects of mixing herbs and alcohol?), the world grew black, the pain in Geralt’s arm increased exponentially as he belatedly realized he had fallen on his bad shoulder, and that was the last thought he had before he fell unconscious.

\----

“Fucking Witchers and their fucking need to prove to everyone else how invincible they are,” Jaskier felt a sickly combination of fear and rage take over his body as he approached Geralt, “Why the fuck didn’t you _tell_ me you needed to go back to the room? I was just fine.”

Sighing tiredly, Jaskier placed his lute gently on the floor next to him, and pulled Geralt’s head into his lap, stroking the silver hair back from his forehead, noticing with concern that it was so sweat-soaked it looked more of a dark greyish-brown. Geralt’s dark eyelashes fluttered weakly for a second before he frowned and awoke, looking confused and pained.

“Please don’t tell me you’re still going to say you’re fine, and that you’re just tired, and you don’t need a healer.” Jaskier continued stroking the Witcher’s hair as he spoke softly.

“Mmm…may have mixed…herbs ’n alcohol. Not a good…combination.”

“Melitele, Geralt, are you really this stupid? Fuck, you and I are going to need to talk about your resistance to toxicity after all this is over. I know you’re a Witcher, but it doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”

Geralt just closed his eyes and ran a very shaky hand over his face, at least having the good graces to look slightly ashamed.

“Come on, Witcher. We’re getting you to a healer. You’re exhausted, drunk, and there’s very clearly something wrong with your arm and shoulder that you’ve been trying valiantly to hide from me for days.”

Jaskier took it as a sign as to how poorly Geralt was feeling that he acquiesced, frowning exhaustedly. He was clearly in a great deal of pain, even after the herbs and copious amounts of ale, and Jaskier was eager to get him to someone who could give him something a bit more effective.

\----

Geralt felt as though he was floating in a haze; there were words coming out of his mouth which he knew he hadn’t entirely chosen to say, and yet there was nothing he could do to stop them from coming. He was so very tired, and Jaskier’s (at least he assumed it was Jaskier) hand was so very gentle in his hair. He could feel vaguely that there was someone else moving around as well, but he felt so hot and heavy and tired that he couldn’t really be bothered to concern himself with it. For the first time in days, his arm had almost entirely stopped hurting, instead leaving just an unpleasant heavy feeling in its place. Geralt turned his hot face into the pillow, closing his eyes and sighing.

“Shhh, shhh, just try and rest,” Jaskier’s voice penetrated his hazy thoughts a little, “You’re with a healer, she’s going to give you some laudanum to help you sleep. Later on, we can talk about why you traipsed around the countryside for a whole week with a broken shoulder and arm without telling me. If you’d left it much longer you could’ve lost your whole arm.”

Geralt turned his head sideways and blinked confusedly up at the bard, wondering why he was even still here. Jaskier owed him nothing, had no obligation to be here during this. Through the fog that wrapped around him like a wool cloak, the Witcher felt a brief pang of panic. He didn’t want Jaskier to know what had caused this. He couldn’t let Jaskier know. He didn’t remember why, but he did remember promising himself that the bard must not realize why he was still injured. Everything was hot and heavy and confused now, the air felt pregnant and too warm, like the air before a thunderstorm. Geralt felt ill, like the pain was going to make him throw up, which was strange because he felt no pain anymore, just a buzzing numbness. He turned his head back into the pillow and closed his eyes, tried to rest them a bit like Jaskier had said. However, Geralt felt like he had barely laid his head down and closed his eyes when he felt a rough, calloused hand at the back of his neck, tasted the sickly sweet flavour of laudanum as a rag was pressed over his mouth and nose. Colours in the room which had already been bleeding into one another became one solid, swirling vortex. Vaguely, he felt himself smiling lazily, lopsidedly, and decided he must be very ill to be doing such a thing so freely. Then, Geralt’s vision narrowed down to pinpricks, went dark, and he knew no more.

\----

Geralt was knocked out cold, but Jaskier could still read the signs of pain clearly etched on his weary face. The healer, a sweet-faced young woman who seemed much too young to know anything about anything, much less how to re-break and set bones, had left them alone in their room in the tower, where she had been called by Lord Erick after Jaskier had found Geralt sitting insensible on the floor. She had said Geralt would likely be in a great deal of pain for the next day or so at least; his muscles and tendons were bruised and ripped, stiff from spending so long out of their correct places. She had given Jaskier very strict instructions to not let the Witcher move, especially not his arm; the muscles and bones were badly damaged and needed to stay immobilized to heal. So, to that end, despite the thunderous anger the bard felt that Geralt had not alerted him to how poorly he had been feeling, Jaskier was sitting in a chair next to Geralt’s bed, stroking his hair and humming softly. He had felt a little bit of warmth bloom in his stomach when the Witcher had been stirring and making soft noises of discomfort, and his singing had immediately quieted him. He knew that when he was fully well, Geralt would never admit to such a thing. But Jaskier would hold the knowledge close to him, squirrelling it away for all possible further uses.

Despite the fondness he felt, Jaskier also felt burning anger. Clearly, he had not successfully set the bones when Geralt had broken them in the first place. Why, in the name of all the Gods and Goddesses the Witcher had not told him so they could fix the problem sooner Jaskier did not understand. He felt badly for having caused the Witcher pain in the first place, but honestly, he could have felt so much better so much sooner had he just spoken up. Jaskier felt a very strong urge to smack Geralt upside the head, and if he had not looked both so pitiful and so handsome at the same time he may well have acted on this impulse. But there was something about his soft hair, darkened with sweat, and the way his brow and nose scrunched up when he took a breath, that made Jaskier stop in his tracks.

The healer, before she had left, had said Geralt would likely not remain asleep as long as a normal man who had been drugged with laudanum. Jaskier rather felt like he was playing a sick game, where every twitch of Geralt’s face was a sign of him awakening, which set of the bard’s heart pounding again at the thought of how much pain Geralt would be in when he woke. Waiting for this moment made Jaskier ache with fear and wish for it all to be over.

Luckily he did not have to wait long. Barely a half an hour after the healer had left, when the sun was just beginning to send its pink rays peeking over the horizon, Geralt turned his head towards Jaskier and groaned, opening his eyes the barest crack and then closing them tightly again against the watery light of the morning sun. His breath hitched and sped up, and his good hand gripped desperately at his broken shoulder, confused and trembling.

“Shh, shh, you need to stay still. You’re very hurt and very ill, I have some herbs to stop the pain a bit, I just need you to stay awake until I give them to you and then you can sleep again.”

Geralt stopped gripping his shoulder, but his breathing was still fast and pained, and he looked very confused. Jaskier knew from experience that waking after being drugged with laudanum was at best disorienting, and at worst absolutely nauseating.

“You’re still in Eritrea,” Jaskier began as he crushed the herbs the healer had left into a glass of water, “We had to re-break your shoulder and your arm to let them heal properly, so you must stay very still. Just tell me if you need anything, I’ll get it for you.”

The bard supposed this was what Geralt would call “spouting exposition”, but he hoped his voice would at least be grounding even if the Witcher was too confused to understand what he was saying. He brought Geralt the cup, who managed to swallow it with minimal coughing, after which his eyes drifted shut almost immediately. Jaskier could tell he stayed awake for a while longer though, probably sitting in an uneasy meditative state while he waited for the herbs to begin easing his pain. Eventually, however, his body relaxed and stopped shaking, and Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief.

\----

The following day, Geralt was already feeling a bit better, although what he told Jaskier and what he actually felt were two different matters. Yesterday, he had spent most of the day in a sweaty, trembling haze, where colours blurred together and his only anchor to the world was Jaskier’s voice, which cut through the sharp, burning pain that raged in his broken arm. Today, he felt weak and ill, his body still trying to recover from the trauma it had been put through. He was still too ill to eat, and he spent most of the morning propped up against several pillows, trying to keep his eyes open. Jaskier, he noted, did not seem to be despairing in the way he had anticipated. If anything, he seemed only greatly relieved and cheered by the fact that Geralt was aware today, and able to carry on a normal conversation. Feeling bemused, the Witcher wondered if he had perhaps missed some important detail. Based on his previous experiences of Jaskier, the bard was extremely sensitive and blamed himself easily for even the slightest mishap. And yet, here he was, humming to himself as he sorted through their belonging and took stock of provisions, seeming to hardly have a care in the world. Briefly, Geralt entertained the possibility that Jaskier was a feverish hallucination, but he did not feel the hot ache of a fever under his skin, just a thudding pain in his arm and his head, dulled by the herbs that were also dulling his ability to think. Too exhausted to continue the train of thought, he turned his head into the pillow, allowing himself a mild sense of frustration that he couldn’t roll over to get more comfortable. Jaskier was taking the healer’s instructions that he was to remain still _very_ seriously. 

“Are you alright, Witcher dear?” Jaskier’s voice lilted; always full of song even when he wasn’t performing. And damned if Geralt didn’t find it endearing, he thought dizzily.

“As it goes. My arm fucking hurts.”

“Yes, well leaving unset broken bones sitting for nigh on a week will do that to you. Do you _enjoy_ being in pain? Is there some secret desire I’m missing here?”

Slightly shocked and confused at the route the conversation had taken, Geralt blinked owlishly. Of all the ways he had expected the conversation about allowing his wounds to go on paining him to go, a question about his deep and secret desires was _not_ something he had expected. 

“Thought you’d…feel guilty. Didn’t want to hurt you.” His words were slurred from the herbs he had taken and the exhaustion he felt seeping into his very bones.

Jaskier’s expressive face softened, his dark eyebrows turned down and in at Geralt’s words.

“Oh, Geralt. You mean to say you spent nearly a week in unspeakable pain, with a broken shoulder and arm, because you didn’t want me to feel bad? You, my friend, are an idiot,” Geralt observed fuzzily that there was a soft fondness to his smile, “I would have felt stupid for not setting them properly the first time, yes. But I would have been so glad you told me so I could help you. Goddess, Geralt, don’t you ever stop to think that the people who care for you might not enjoy seeing you in pain?”

“T’be fair, I don’t much enjoy it either,” Geralt rebuked him sleepily. His eyes were beginning to fall shut, and there was a soft, gentle warmth settling in his chest that made him feel as though he could sleep for a week. Jaskier approached him and ran a hand gently through his sweaty hair, even as his body began to lose its battle with sleep.

“M’just going to…rest my eyes a bit. Keep packing. I’ll be fine. Want to get out of the damned placed tomorrow.”

“You do that, my dear,” Jaskier said absently, as though more to himself than Geralt, who was sure the bard never would have used terms of endearment so openly had he been fully aware, “Rest and get well again. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're almost at the end of this fic, just one more chapter to go! It feels kind of weird to be finishing another work on here, and I already have ideas for another one in the works! It would mean the absolute world to me and more if you could drop a little comment below, it makes my whole day to read what you guys have to say about my work and how I could improve on stuff. Also, as always, if you have any prompts (this story came from one given to me a couple weeks ago), please drop them below or come hang out on my Tumblr at aloe-casia. I always try to get prompts done ASAP, and I SO love working on the wonderful ideas you come up with. Thanks for reading and stay safe out there! ❤️


	7. Wraiths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier And Geralt get separated when they encounter some wraiths outside an abandoned village, and things go very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it turns out I can't whump Jaskier without doing the same to Geralt, so here you go. As always, your comments give me smiles and joy and everything good!
> 
> Also -- another story is in the works!

Geralt had never felt like such a fool in his entire life. He had known, entering the town. He had felt something sick and ill settling deep in the recesses of his mind at the very second that he and Jaskier had passed under the decrepit gate, off of which a stag’s skull hung, swinging and creaking hauntingly in the breeze. The town was empty, and alarmingly quiet. There were none of the usual sounds of village life; chickens clucking and people muttering and murmuring as Geralt passed by. There were not even stray dogs poking about amidst the houses, and the only noise that could be heard was the creaking of the skull hanging from the gate, and of cicadas chirping in the heavy summer air. And yet, he had not told Jaskier to turn around. He had acted as he would have had he been alone, continuing on, trusting in his own ability to protect himself, or take responsibility for what would happen were he to fail. It had been over a year, And Geralt still had to remind himself he did not travel alone anymore. That he had someone else’s life on his conscience, now. 

All was proceeding very much as Geralt had hoped it would, working under the assumption that the village had been abandoned because of poor crop yields or lack of an access to water and not a more sinister reason. Jaskier was whistling a merry tune from where he walked next to Roach, humming gaily to himself, completely unaware of the deep unease that was settling over his companion as they travelled further through the silent streets. In fact, he seemed absolutely overjoyed to see some signs of life again after almost a month spent hunting monsters and completing contracts with almost no contact with the outside world. 

Suddenly, a stench hit Geralt’s nostrils, almost overpowering him after the light breeze and smell of summer blossoms that had filled his senses up until now. It was an unmistakeable stench, and one he knew well. The scent of dead horses and men is not easily mistaken for something else. 

“Move, now,” he growled, feeling the adrenaline flood through his body, sending a bright, almost painful tingling down his arms and legs as he reached back and drew his sword, feeling the familiarity of the leather grip, warm and soft from wear.

“What’s wrong, Geralt? Do you see something?”

“It’s the smell. Dead men and horses, and not even a dog left in the village. Something was here before us, and it didn’t leave survivors. Get up on Roach, now. We’re leaving.”

Jaskier’s blue eyes flashed with alarm when Geralt asked him to get up on Roach, something that he had only been allowed to do on very select occasions and always when there was either very immediate danger, or one or both of them was injured or ill. Gulping, he took Geralt’s extended hand and swung himself up, careful not to bang his chin on the sheath slung across the Witcher’s back. Geralt spurred Roach on into a quick canter, holding her back from galloping lest she tired before they were out of danger. He was on high alert, scenting the air and keeping aware of every small movement, every rustle in the foliage.

They rode on like this for nearly ten minutes, and had left all traces of both the town and the scent of corpses behind them. But the woods were still quiet, Geralt observed. There were no birds singing, no insects rustling in the flowers or mice scurrying through the underbrush, all normal sounds to his oversensitive ears that left them ringing now they were gone.

“I think we may have, for the first time, passed by the danger without encountering it.” Jaskier sighed from behind him, relieved.

Geralt grunted. It was too quiet, and every nerve in his body, every intuition he had was telling him not to sheath his sword, not to let his guard down.

“Not yet. It’s too quiet, Jaskier. Something isn’t right here.”

Jaskier stayed quiet behind him then, probably from many years of learning that under such circumstances nothing angered more than having his concentration breached. All that could be heard was the rhythmic drumming of Roach’s hooves, the heavy sounds of her breath. Then, suddenly, there was a screech from the woods to Geralt’s right. His head whipped up so fast his neck protested violently.

“Jaskier, stay with Roach,” he called over his shoulder as he leapt to the ground, “Get her the fuck out of here.”

Eyes wide with nervousness, but steeled over with determination, Jaskier nodded, drawing a small dagger from inside his boots. Even as adrenaline coursed through his veins and his heart pounded in his chest, Geralt couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride well up inside him. The bard was learning. Then, he whirled about and jogged into the underbrush, determined to find whatever had made the noise before Jaskier needed to put his dagger to use.

\----

Geralt had never seen so many wraiths together. Normally they appeared in groups of four or five, but there were at least fifteen here, and every time he got close to killing them they disappeared in a haze of green smoke, only to reappear where he least expected them. Geralt had always hated fighting wraiths. They were infuriating, with their constant shrieking and their ability to disappear just as they were finally about to die. Five wraiths, even seven or ten, would have caused no problem for him. However, fifteen wraiths, even just to keep track of in a fight, was challenging, if nigh on impossible. Growling, Geralt pirouetted backwards, trying to protect his back against a tree even has he fought off the remaining twelve wraiths swirling around him. 

Suddenly, he felt an icy cold grip take hold of his shoulder, and felt cold dread seep into his stomach. The touch of a wraith sent a deep, bone-chilling cold through the victim. However, there were three wraiths behind him, caressing his cheeks and shoulders with deadly gentleness even as their ear-splitting shrieks made his ears ring. The cold paralyzed him, sent a deep nausea rolling in his gut. Then, suddenly, pain exploded through his chest as the three wraiths pushed him backwards against the tree. Geralt felt several of his ribs give way, but he was paralyzed by the cold, unable to lift his sword or even utter the low groan of pain that threatened to escape from his throat. Then, one of the women, with her ghostly green eyes looking almost mocking, brought her hand up and stroked it across his forehead. Geralt felt his vision go dark against the iciness of her touch, reducing to a pinpoint as the thudding pain in his chest grew louder, more painful, and then, suddenly, everything ceased.

\----

Jaskier urged Roach on, his heart pounding so hard he felt as though it would simply give out and burst; perhaps with blood spurting in every direction. He had seen an old woman do that once; she simply fell to the ground with a shocked expression on her face, blood pouring from her slack mouth. It was a fitting end, he supposed, to die with his lifeblood pouring from his mouth, his instrument. It was not, however, an end he wanted to meet today. So he continued his mad gallop, dagger clenched in his hand, until finally Roach grew so tired he knew he could not force her to continue. Exhausted and panting, he turned her off the dirt track and into a small clearing at the side of the road. Thankfully, he took a swig of the water skin Geralt had left in his saddlebag, and offered a little to Roach as well. Surely, the Witcher, having dealt with whatever danger had been lurking by the village, would catch up with them soon. They had travelled a fair distance, and Jaskier felt decently confident that they would remain out of harm’s way as long as they stayed here. Sighing, he leaned back against a rock, resting his aching legs, unused to riding so hard over such a distance. Eventually, his eyes drifted almost shut, thoughts wandering aimlessly from one thing to another, sometimes resting on a new melody, or the song of the birds in the trees. He was so close to sleep he barely noticed the sudden chill that had taken the air. It wasn’t until he was so cold he was shivering and shaking that he jerked back awake. It was midsummer, hot and muggy. There was no way in all the heavens and hells that the weather could turn so quickly for natural reasons.

Heart beginning to quicken again, Jaskier drew his dagger softly, smoothly. He had learned from Geralt long ago that calling out to see who was there was a decidedly poor idea, so instead he settled for crouching with his back to the rock, eyes trying to pierce the impenetrable blackness of the night that had fallen while he was resting. There was nothing there. Nothing moving, nothing chirping, nothing. Just blackness and silence. The birds that had earlier sung him to sleep had fled, and even Roach, from what he could see of her, stood stock still, not even moving her ears or swishing her tail. She looked as alert and as frightened as Jaskier felt.

Suddenly, the chill became exceptionally more immediate. Jaskier could see his own breath crystallizing in front of his mouth. Horrified, he reached up to touch it, swinging his head around wildly, desperately wishing Geralt were here to explain to him what was happening, or at least to swing his sword at whatever was causing it. 

A hand, ghostly and green, crept into Jaskier’s field of vision, and he let out a cry of surprise and fear that caught, frozen by the breathtaking cold, in his throat. He slashed at the thing with his dagger, but the hand simply turned to mist where he cut it, reappearing unharmed a moment later. An ear-splitting shriek filled his ears, so loud it caused tears to form in his eyes. The hand reached up to his shoulder and squeezed, _hard_. Desperate to get away, Jaskier made another haphazard slash at the hand, which he now realized was attached to the ghostly, veiled body of a woman. She hissed and backed off, for a mere second, and the bard slipped out from under her arm and ran towards Roach. However, it was dark, and the glade they had stopped in was full of rocks and trees. He barely made it more than a few paces before he stumbled, a fiery, grinding pain exploding in his ankle as his head hit the ground and bounced off a rock, causing bursts of colour to flash before his eyes. The last thing Jaskier was aware of before he lost consciousness was of the flash of silver in the night, and of an inhuman wail above him.

\----

Jaskier woke all at once, gasping for air and flailing, absolutely convinced that he was about to be frozen to death by the ghostly hand of the wraith. When he found he couldn’t move his arms or legs, his suspicions were only confirmed. The wraith must have entombed him in ice, dooming him to live the rest of his short life in cold and agony. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. And realized the air around him was warm.

Cracking an eye, Jaskier was greeted by the light of a small fire, crackling merrily. He was wrapped up in blankets and furs, both those belonging to him and belonging to Geralt, and his ankle thudded with a dull, steady pain. There was a large lump on the back of his head as well, but it had been cleaned and bandaged, leaving him with nothing but a headache and a sore ankle to prove that any of it had happened at all.

Turning his head a little more, Jaskier saw Geralt, resting with his back against a log, wrapped up tightly in his black cloak. He was trembling a little, which alarmed the bard enough to cause him to sit up.

“Geralt,” he said, cradling his head as the change in altitude caused it to pound more fiercely, “Are you alright?”

Geralt looked up, clearly having been on the verge of sleep and very surprised to see Jaskier awake and talking.

“How are you feeling?” He said by way of an answer, “You took a bad blow to the head, and your ankle’s broken. Probably should try not to move for now.”

Standing slowly, as though it was causing him a goodly amount of pain, Geralt made his way over to Jaskier, where he bent down with a soft breath and felt the lump on the back of the bard’s head, as well as checked on his ankle to make sure whatever splint he had crafted was holding up.

“You warming up? Wraiths are bastard cold, mores for humans than for me. I’m surprised you survived.”

Jaskier nodded meekly, feeling a little confused and muddled from the blow to his head. Perhaps the stiffness in Geralt’s movements was just his imagination. After all, the Witcher had clearly been able to move him close to the fire, tend to his injuries, and then wrap him in blankets. He also noticed Roach’s tack was laid out on the log. An injured man could not have accomplished all that unaided. He snuggled back into the blankets, And Geralt slipped a mug of something warm, probably tea, into his hands.

“Chamomile, for the pain,” he stated simply, “Try and finish it before you go back to sleep. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“What happened to you? How did the wraiths end up here? Were they even the same ones that were calling outside the village?”

“There were too many of them. I couldn’t fight them all off. I assume after I passed out they sought you out from whatever scent of you was lingering on my clothes. Sorry about that. You did well, defending yourself. They could have easily killed you.”

Jaskier sat bolt upright, taking a moment to groan and cradle his head at the change in altitude again.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘after you passed out’? Great Goddess, Geralt, what happened to you?”

“Nothing near what happened to you. Couple of broken ribs. Still a little cold, but I’ll be fine. Once you’re feeling well enough to travel, we should get to the nearest town and have a healer look at your ankle. I set and splinted it, but it would be best to get a second opinion.”

“Oh, no, no no. Geralt, you do not get to casually say you _passed out_ and then just go on speaking to me as though nothing happened. Those wraiths are unnaturally cold, and you’ve given me all your blankets. Come here and share them, and then I want to have a look at your ribs.”

Geralt looked hesitant, as though he was unsure of what to do, as though he did not want to breathe on Jaskier for fear he would break.

“Don’t want to make you cold,” he stated simply, “I’m fine with my cloak, I’ve warmed up a good deal as well.”

“No. This is non-negotiable. You looked after me while I was unconscious, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. You may as well come here and share my warmth while we wait, especially seeing as how you’re a self-sacrificing, heroic bastard who gave up all his furs even though he’s clearly injured as well.”

Geralt gave him a piercing amber glare, one which would have cowed a lesser man. However, Jaskier had long ago learned that, when it came to him, Geralt was all bark and almost no bite. It also helped that his head wound had significantly blurred his vision; he couldn’t tell if the Witcher was actually glaring or just pulling a ridiculous face. Or, perhaps, simply melting away. Jaskier felt ill and confused, and it was not beyond the realms of possibility in his addled brain, although what remained of the rational part screamed that this was nonsense. He shifted over under the blankets and furs as much as he could, and reached out an arm for the Witcher to join him.

“C’mere, I’m tired and I want to look at your ribs before I’m completely delirious with exhaustion.”

Jaskier swore he heard Geralt mutter something about dramatics under his breath, but he moved the furs aside slightly, enough to sit propped up on his arm. Geralt slid in next to him, although he was clearly avoiding touching the bard, as though if he were not careful Jaskier would break. However, he sighed at the warmth, and his trembling slowed a little as Jaskier lazily snaked an arm around his waist, tugging gently on his shirt to get him to lift it up.

“Leave your cloak on,” Jaskier slurred tiredly, “Know you’re cold.”

With slow, aching movements, Geralt managed to work his shirt halfway up his chest, far enough for Jaskier to see he was bruised black and blue, and that his breaths were very shallow and clearly impeded by the broken ribs. He would need to bandage them up, but there were no bandages close by, and he was in no fit state to stay sitting for a long time, let alone walk.

“They’re fine,” Geralt grunted tiredly, “I’ve dealt with far worse for far longer, and you’re exhausted, and I’m too tired to bandage them myself right now. I’ll live until the morning. I’m well enough now I’m warm.”

Jaskier nodded, too exhausted and in too much pain to fight it. His ankle and head throbbed in time with his pulse, and he wanted to badly to drift off and fall asleep. Geralt ran perennially hot, and his warmth, even though he was still shivering, sent the bard into a sleepy haze. He barely noticed when Geralt eased himself slowly down so he was lying on his back, their arms just touching, and the warmth of that touch was enough to lull him to sleep.

\----

The next morning dawned bright and beautiful, the kind of summer day that Jaskier loved more than any other, the kind of day when he was content to meander cheerfully along behind Roach, breathing in the fresh, hot air, not a care in the world. But on this day, he awoke far later than normal, with a groan of pain as the bruises and aches all over his body made themselves known. He barely remembered what had happened the previous day, just that, judging by the amount of pain he was in, it had not ended well. With a poorly concealed whimper at the ache in his head, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, finding himself wrapped in an enormous pile of furs and blankets, and sweating profusely. Geralt was no longer next to him, although he dizzily remembered falling asleep next to the Witcher the night before. 

“Geralt?” He called nervously, feeling in no fit state to do much more than sit up, let alone defend himself.

The Witcher appeared from a copse of trees nearby, under which there must have been a small pool, because his silver hair was dripping and damp, and he was bare-chested, exposing a truly impressive cacophony of colourful bruises that bloomed on his chest like sickly flowers. They extended all the way from the waistband of his pants up to his collarbone on the righthand side, and were interspersed with bleeding cuts and lighter, more yellowy bruises.

“You called?” Geralt grumbled, clearly irritated to have been disturbed in the middle of what was clearly a very painful bath. However, there was an edge of concern in his voice as well which warmed Jaskier’s heart.

“Just wondering where you were. It’s a bit concerning to wake alone when you know you fell asleep with someone the night before.”

“Just went to wash off, I didn’t think you’d be awake for a while yet. Do you need anything for the pain?”

Jaskier looked up at him indignantly, still trying to shake off the irrational fear he had felt waking alone and very much in pain.  
“I could say the same thing to you. You look like you had an encounter with the wrong end of a battering ram, and you’re asking me if I need herbs for the pain? Best save them for yourself.”

Geralt frowned tiredly, and Jaskier noticed he hadn’t moved the arm he had wrapped around his chest, seemingly the only thing that was supporting what was probably several broken ribs. The Witcher looked exhausted as well, there were dark circles under his eyes as though he had not slept.

“Geralt, did you get any rest?”

“You woke up several times during the night in a lot of pain. I stayed awake to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself.”

Jaskier felt surprised, although he knew he shouldn’t be. Geralt, despite all appearances to the contrary, was a self-sacrificing idiot, willing to go days without food or rest to help others, even if he would never admit it out loud.

“Well, I’m feeling much better after a sleep, disturbed as it may have been, but I’m not going to be going anywhere for a while, so come here and let me bandage your ribs, and then you can get some sleep.”

Geralt looked reluctant, but he was gripping one of the trees near to him very tightly, as though it was an effort just to keep himself standing under his own power. He limped over, careful not to move his injured side any more than necessary, the day-old bruises clearly having stiffened his muscles considerably. He sat down in a fashion that could best be described as a controlled fall, and thumped down hard on the ground next to the bard, letting out a brief gasp of pain before he got control of himself again. 

While Geralt leaned himself back against a nearby rock, Jaskier managed to pull himself the rest of the way upright, cradling his aching head (although it was causing him significantly less pain today). He came to rest next to the Witcher, who handed him a mound of carefully rolled bandages and a small pot of green salve that tickled the inside of Jaskier’s nostrils with its minty scent.

“Salve first, to numb the pain, then bandages as tight as you can. When you’re done, I’ll put some more of the salve on your ankle. It seemed to be troubling you a good deal last night.”

Painfully, Geralt lifted his arms to about the same height as his shoulders, taking a few steadying breaths along the way, and leaned his head back against the stone, exhausted. Trying to be as gentle as possible, Jaskier rubbed the minty salve over his bruises, trying to focus on the pleasant tingling it caused when it came in contact with his skin instead of Geralt’s very obviously pained breaths. Finally, he felt he had smeared around as much of the salve as would be helpful, and he began carefully wrapping bandages around the scar-marked expanse of Geralt’s chest.

“Fuck, bard, did no one ever teach you to wrap broken ribs? If I stand up, these bandages will fall off. You have to at least pretend like you want them to be tight.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Geralt. These feel awfully tight already. How are you supposed to breathe if I do them any tighter?”

“It hurts to breathe normally. That’s the whole point of bandaging them.”

Sighing and trying not to think about how tightly his ankle must be wrapped if this was Geralt’s benchmark for wrapping broken bones, he yanked the bandages tighter, until there were almost tears of agony leaking out of Geralt’s eyes, and he slowly nodded his head.

“You can be taught, bard.” He said, with a small smile of approval. Jaskier felt a little warmth bloom in his chest as he fastened the bandages and slid Geralt’s shirt back down over them. Sighing, the Witcher leaned back against the rock, gathering himself for a brief few second before he rose with an aching groan and crouched by Jaskier’s ankle.

“Pass me that salve, bard. Your ankle must ache fiercely today; I’ll try to find a town this afternoon where I can get you something a bit more appropriate to dull the pain.”

“You don’t need to do that, Geralt. You’re injured too, and I don’t think your ribs would appreciate a trip on Roach at the moment, as lovely as she is.”

Geralt just snorted and smiled, ever so slightly that if Jaskier had not known how to read the Witcher like a book he would have missed it.

“I’ll not have you sitting here in pain while there’s something that can be done about it,” Geralt stated simply, “And you’re a damned idiot if you think I would.”


End file.
